Stormchasers: Treason at the Tourney
by dominicgrim
Summary: Alim Surana, the Stormbreaker's journey is not over. New allies and new enemies. First of several tales with this group. Takes place in the Stormbreaker universe. Rated Teen for safety, may have mature parts later. I don't own dragon age.
1. The Redboar Tourney

**A/N: If you have not read Stormchasers: Ogre's Bane and Stormchasers: The Outlaw over in my Grim Tales, you might want to do that first. This story will be the first of several focusing on Alim Surana's new travelling companions, and their adventures in Ferelden after the Blight. Look for cameos of other known Dragon Age characters as we proceed, well, without any more rambling here is the first of my Stormchasers stories.**

 **Stormchasers: Treason at the Tourney**

 **Chapter 1: The Redboar Tourney**

Se Adam Redboar's tournament had been advertised to be one for the ages.

For months word had been sent forth, an open invitation to the greatest knights in the realm. The Blight was over, and now at last it was time to celebrate. Many a brave warrior had distinguished himself during the darkspawns' brief invasion, and the Civil War that had raged in its wake. What the tourney offered was a chance to show that greatness to both the entire realm and beyond, that, and the promise of twenty thousand sovereigns as prize had been more than enough to catch the attention of every lord, knight, and hedge knight in Ferelden.

So it was that on a bright summer day, the lords and ladies of Ferelden were to gather on Ser Adam's land and test their might. Jousting, a melee, and a test of archery were to be contested for large sums of the overall prize. Knights were coming from everywhere, from Redcliffe to Denerim, many brave men and women descended on the tourney grounds to test their mettle, to win both fame and fortune.

Yet it was more than that, it was a chance to show the world that Ferelden was on the road to recovery. Orlais and Nevarra had offered aid to their weakened neighbor. The Free Marches sheltered many a refugee that lost his or her home to the Blight. Many in those august nations might have pitied Ferelden for what it had suffered. The Native Fereldans did not want pity. The test of arms on Ser Adam's land would prove to all that they were not weak.

Let no man or woman say that Ferelden was nothing more than a nation of refugees and beggars.

The tourney also offered a relief from the mud and blood of rebuilding. The lords and ladies of Ferelden welcomed the distraction, regardless of the prize, Ferelden **was** still recovering, and much suffering remained in the areas most affected by the darkspawn advance. Both the lords and smallfolk had lost much to the monsters' advance, with the Archdemon dead, they now looked for someone to blame.

Too many had come to blame their king.

King Alistair Theirin, the warden king, had done all in his power to make his home strong again. Yet he was still contested by some of his nobles. No sooner had the Blight ended that he found himself facing an inquest, and investigation into his heritage. It had ended with the findings said to be inconclusive, yet still questions remained. The lords may have allied with him to fight the Archdemon, but with the beast dead, they were left to question his legitimacy, and they were not the only ones. The merchants and small folk had their own opinions about the warden king. He was seen as either a champion of the small folk, or merely a puppet of the Lord Chancellor. When a food shipment was delayed, some blamed the king. When a crop failed or too little rain fell the crown was blamed. What resulted was a sense of unease in the realm, a sense of distrust.

That lack of trust was seen by some…as an opportunity.

It was for that reason that the king could not let the Red Boar tourney happen without having at least one pair of eyes to watch over it. Both the king and Chancellor Eamon both agreed on that. The only question remained now, was who to send?

For the king, there was no question.

Alistair turned to the one man that he knew he could trust; a hero that he knew wanted nothing more than to ensure what they had built together.

The king once again called on his warden brother, Alim Surana, Surana Stormbreaker, the Hero of Ferelden, if there was something off at the Tournament, he would find it.

If trouble was brewing, if treason was afoot, Alim would find it, if anyone could ferret out deceit at such event…

…it was him.

IOI

Alim Surana made his way through the crowd, past the brightly colored pavilions of the knights and nobles, not to mention the various merchants, food vendors, and entertainers plying their trade. Mummers, acrobats, fools, and puppeteers kept the people entertained as the knights readied themselves for the first tilt of the day.

The elf's expression was wistful; it had been a long time since he had seen true merrymaking here in Ferelden, his life as a warden usually kept him to the darker places, the troubled places.

It was nice to step out of the darkness, even if that light might be hiding more than the darkest of shadows.

One of his earliest happy memories had happened at a tourney. He had been five, perhaps six years old. His father had served the Bann of Lothering as Kennel master back then. The Bann had held a tourney in honor of his daughter's name day. It had been nothing as grand as this, if his memory served, but still an exciting day for a little boy.

He remembered sitting on his father's shoulders, cheering loudly, watching as the knights rode tilt after tilt, their lances exploding with every strike against a shield.

The thought was happy, yes, but it was also a little bitter sweet.

Alim's father would die a year or so later, a victim of the giant spiders that had haunted Lothering back then. His mother had done her best to continue on without him, but in the end she had lost her son to the Circle of Magi, a loss that she had never recovered from. She had died a few years later, fearing to her end that he son blamed her for letting the Templars take him.

The warden shook his head.

It was all gone now. His Mother, his Father, even Lothering itself, swept away by the darkspawn horde, its land defiled, even the beautiful field where his mother's ashes had been scattered.

The thought brought a brief flicker of anger to the elf's eyes, for a moment the clouds above seemed to darken, thunder rumbled in the distance.

Alim took a deep breath and pushed that anger away, and with it the storm that threatened to rise from his magic.

 _You're not some angry child anymore_ , his conscience chided; _you are a fully trained mage and a warden._

 _Bloody well act like it._

He took another deep breath and centered himself, just as Irving had taught him long ago. When he opened them again, he was back in control.

I've lost much, he thought, but I've gained as well, friends, love…

He smiled at the thought.

 _Leli._

His love's face swam into his thoughts, her blue playful eyes, her generous mouth, always ready for a smile or a kiss, hers and one other. The one they had to keep hidden, at least for now, a tiny babe with bright blue eyes and a shock of fiery red hair...

…A babe that had smiled at him when he had left, he had kissed her pale forehead and made her burble happily.

My world, he murmured.

You are the stars in my sky

She was safe, he knew, they were **both** safe, protected by both Leliana's lethal skills and a small army of priests and Templars, Templars loyal to Leliana's mentor, the Revered Mother Dorethea.

The old lady had promised that she and hers would watch over those he loved, it was a promise he would hold her too. Leliana assured him as well.

"We will be fine dearest," she had said, "go be dangerous."

She had smiled slyly.

"We will be much safer when you are through."

Wise words, he knew, Alistair's enemies were likely his enemies as well. If Ali fell, it would be only a matter of time until his enemies targeted his friend the Hero of Ferelden.

It was for that reason that he had agreed to come to the Redboar's tourney.

For his ladies, he would do anything.

He and the chancellor would **never** be friends, Alim recognized that, too much had happened between them, but that did not mean that they were enemies. They both had Alistair's interest at heart, and they both agreed that something was wrong with Ser Adam Redboar and his tourney.

Ser Adam had been an ally of Teyrn Loghain, his holdings modest, typical for a landed knight of his stature. Once he had paid tribute to Bann Bronic, one of the men who had opposed Loghain during the Civil War. When the Teyrn had crushed the Bann and destroyed his family, he had given a piece of his lands to Ser Adam. Alistair likely would have returned those lands to the Bann's heirs, but alas his house had been wiped out between the Blight and the Civil War. As a result, the Redboar got to keep his ill-gotten gains, but that was not why the Chancellor was concerned.

It was the tourney itself.

Twenty thousand gold in prize money, which was not chicken feed, eight thousand to the champion, four thousand to the runner up, five thousand to the winner of the melee, and three thousand to the greatest archer, that much gold was not easy to come by. King Cailan and Queen Anora's wedding tourney had only had a prize of ten thousand. Such a prize seemed…excessive, and it led to a question.

 _Where had Ser Adam come up with such a prize? He was not so well off that he could simply give away such a fortune? The Couslands of Highever would be hard-pressed to offer such a prize in such hard times._

The Chancellor believed that someone was backing Ser Adam, to what end Eamon did not know.

It was Alim's job to find out.

Find out who was behind the tourney, and determine if their goals were a threat to Ferelden. If they were, then he was to act in whatever way he saw fit.

Whatever his methods turned out to be, the king would understand.

Alim had smiled at that.

"I know this is not warden business Lim," Alistair had said.

"No, it is not," he agreed, "But I'm not doing this as a warden."

The elf had placed a slender hand on his warden brother's shoulder.

"You're my friend," he said, "I take care of my friends."

Just like with Jowan, his conscience chimed in, making Alim grimace.

Hopefully this favor for a friend will not end like that.

Alim had said no more, he had struck out of Ser Adam's land without a moment's hesitation.

Not that he faced this threat alone, oh no.

During the Blight Alim had learned the value of having others at his side.

It was a lesson he had not forgotten.

The first of his allies was Ser Oswald of Dragon's Peak, known to his fellows as Ser Oswald Ogre's Bane. Though young, Oz had no shortage of courage or humor. As a squire he had risked his life to save his knight from an ogre. By striking at the beast, Oz had provided the perfect bait for Alim to arrive and take the monster down.

Oz had been knighted for that. His fellows, having misheard Alim when he called the young squire _Ogre's Bait,_ gave Oz his nickname. Alim said nothing to correct them. Oz deserved to be treated with respect for his bravery, and besides…

…Ser Oswald Ogre's Bane had a nice ring to it.

The two of them might have been enough to deal with this matter, but Alim had thought it wise to seek out a third blade.

In Tristan Merry they had found that.

Tristan Merry was an outlaw that he and Oz had encountered on the king's road, an outlaw with both skill and a bit of a reputation. Merry was also known as the Prince of the king's Highway, or Lord of the Gutter, He had been preying on the nobles for months. He was a handsome lad that dressed like a dandy, and wielded a dragonbone longsword. He had become infamous for both his skill and his sense of courtesy when dealing with victims that caused him no trouble. Young women in particular proved especially vulnerable to his charms.

In truth he had reminded Alim a bit of his friend Zevran Arainai, that, and the fact that the outlaw had chosen to spare a young boy for trying to defend his sister's honor had been enough to convince the elf to invite him along on this little mission. He did not trust him that could only come with time but he was willing to bet that the outlaw was smart enough to try to gain the king's favor.

Between the three of them, the warden hoped to get to the bottom of this, to find out what was going on behind the scenes of Adam Redboar's tourney.

As a noble, Oz would be welcomed among the highborn and knights that would gather in the lord's box. Tristan Merry was familiar with the underbelly of such gatherings, if something untoward was going on, he would likely hear about it. As for Alim, he realized that he could not simply show up as the Hero of Ferelden, everyone knew how close the warden was to the king.

So, he had chosen to show up as someone else.

The hat, coat, armor, and weapons that most people knew him to wear were safely hidden. He walked the tourney grounds today in simple breaches and a plain cracked leather vest. A rounded straw hat kept the sun off his rather large elven ears. His feet were wrapped in the way common to elves that could not afford shoes in the Alienage.

If anyone asked who he was, he was simply Lem, a kennel hand to Dragon's Peak, serving as squire for Ser Oswald at this glorious event. The young knight had yet to take a squire. For the tourney, his humble rabbit, Lem would have to do.

Alim had smiled at that. Oz had not understood why he chose to come to the tourney in secret.

"I don't want to scare off our prey," he had informed the knight.

"Fair enough," Oz had agreed, "But why Lem? Why a kennel hand?"

The warden had chuckled.

"My father's name was Lem, and if my magic had never manifested, I would have been a kennel hand."

His ears twitched with amusement.

"That life may have been denied me, but that does not mean that I have forgotten where I came from."

His expression turned sad.

"I will _never_ forget."

Lem could go where the warden mage Alim Surana could not, he could speak openly with the elven servants who heard more than their lords ever realized.

Between the three of them, they would get to the bottom of what was going on here.

If there was treason afoot, they would find it.

The sound of trumpets in the distance drew all eyes to the tourney grounds. As one the crowd moved, jostling each other as they tried to find a place where they could see.

Alim blended in among them.

The crowd was being summoned for the first tilt of the day.

The Redboar Tourney was about to begin.

 **A/N: Next chapter, the introduction of another of the Stormchasers, the hedge knight known as the Cat. See you all next time; if you like this story please shoot me a review, you know I like them.**


	2. Knights

**Chapter 2: Knights**

Like a shadow Tristan Merry made his way through the thinning crowd. All eyes were directed forward, not a one looked behind. As the people gathered to watch the jousting, the outlaw would take the opportunity to get a look at what the less respectable crowd was doing.

The thought brought a smile to his handsome face.

The elf had told him to keep an eye out for anything suspicious, what that was, he could not say. As for Tristan, things here did not seem so different than any other tourney he had attended. Food vendors were hawking their wares. Whores sashayed past the noble pavilions plying their trade, and knights and highborn were all puffing up their chests and their egos, claiming how they would leave this field as a champion.

All in all, it was a typical day on the tourney grounds.

The sight of four men in Redboar sigils gave him pause, guards no doubt. Security provided by their host. Tristan stepped aside and bowed his head in submission. They might have thought him some noble and let him pass had he been wearing his fine shirt and breeches, but such clothing would have gone against his mission here.

No, for his purpose, the outlaw had chosen to wear an old sack cloth cloak, faded from the sun and just dirty enough that he might be ignored.

Which, lucky for him, he was.

The guards passed him without a word, their eyes watching the crowd and the pavilions, making sure that cutpurses and other thieves did not help themselves to the knights and the nobles' various toys.

Tristan shook his head.

He could not deny it, the clink of gold coins called to him. They sang out like a beautiful maiden calling amorously through a gauzy curtain. Yet, he held that thirst in check.

It would not do to start filching coin when the prize the elf and the knight had offered was so much sweeter. If he had to exercise a bit of self-control, so be it...

Warden or not, Alim Surana had seemed on the up and up when it came to their mission here. The least that Tristan Merry could do was be equally as honest.

If he helped the elf and won the king's favor, so be it. If it looked like the job was going to be bust, he would drift off into the crowd and vanish, but not before helping himself to a little of the loot that was practically calling his name.

Profit was profit after all, he thought with a slight smile.

A man had to have his priorities.

He slipped past several pavilions bearing the sigil of old and storied noble houses. Their knights sat facing the tourney grounds, waiting for the chance to enter the lists and try their hand against their first opponent. The sound of breaking lances and the cheer of the crowd could be heard not so far away. Tristan did not even look towards it.

It was not the jousting that concerned him; it was what might be going on while everyone was distracted. Yet, so far, he had turned up nothing.

He shook his head.

Perhaps the elf was wrong about all this?

Perhaps nothing was off here?

He paused again as a knight rode past him. The charger that carried him was old but clearly well trained. The knight himself was small, almost slender, likely a youth riding in his first tilt. The warrior glanced down at him, but said nothing. His armor was plain but clearly well cared for. The rider shifted in his saddle, as if trying to get comfortable, or to adjust his breast plate.

Tristan gave the warrior an arched look.

Though armored in plain steel plate, one thing did stand out. The helm the knight wore was no mere steel bucket, it had been fashioned as much for beauty as protection. The face plate had been shaped into the form of a great snarling cat, the warrior's eyes barely visible between two steel fangs. The points atop it were shaped to two points, taking on the look of cat ears.

Tristan smiled slightly, it might have seemed impractical, but made sense as he looked at the heraldry on the knight's shield, a black tom cat on a yellow field, a cat with its back arched as if spitting and hissing in challenge.

Surprisingly, the knight nodded in greeting, surprising behavior from one of the highborn, to even acknowledge one dressed so plainly.

He nodded back.

"Ser Eagan the Cat has entered the lists," he heard the master of games call in the distance, "he faces Ser Perth of Redcliffe."

Tristan bowed his head.

"Good luck to you Ser Cat," he murmured.

"May your lance find its mark."

IOI

"How is your lord brother doing Ser Oswald?"

Oz smiled slightly.

"Annoyed that he is still not well enough to ride today, My Lord," he told the Redboar, "Oswyn always enjoyed riding in such affairs."

Ser Adam nodded a sympathetic look on his hard face.

"What Rendon Howe did to your poor brother is a travesty," he said, "Thank Andraste that the man answered for his crime."

"Andraste and the Hero of Ferelden," Oz reminded him.

"Indeed," the Redboar said, "Indeed."

Oz leaned back in his chair. He had been a little surprised when he had received an invitation to sit in the royal box today; he had thought that he would be watching the tourney from Oswyn's pavilion, borrowed so that he would not look out of place at this event. The only contact he would have with the host of the tourney would have come later, when the feast was held, or so he had thought.

Yet, here he sat. He was not one to deny such a golden opportunity. They were here to see if the Redboar was up to something.

Sitting next to him, was a good place to start.

He looked at his fellow lords and nobles, most were allies of Ser Adam and his family. He knew some of them from his father's dealings over the years. Lord Honeywell was familiar, as was Ser Philip Stryker. Ser Adam's daughter and her husband sat on the far side of the box, both were a few years older than Oswyn, so he had did not really know them. He also did not know the man sitting to their right. The young Lord Redboar seemed as thick as thieves with the man though; both of them were too busy talking to notice him. The stranger, clearly a knight was someone he was not familiar with, Ser Maron was his name, or so he had heard.

Oz sipped idly from a horn of wine. So far he had heard nothing suspicious out of the Redboar or his guests; of course, it was not like anyone would be so foolish to speak treason so openly.

No, that kind of talk would come later, in private.

Oz hoped that he might be trusted enough then, to get close to it.

Until that time however, he had decided to sit back and watch the joust. Though he had brought his own tourney gear, he had yet to sign up for the lists. As he watched the first tilts, he realized that staying out of it might have been a smart idea. The men who challenged that first day were, to put it mildly, legends on the tourney circuit.

Any one of them would have been more than a match for a sixteen year old lordling from Dragon's Peak.

In the first tilt they watched Ser Aubrey Black of Highever defeat Ser Philip Eddelbrek. Ser Aubrey's cries of "For the king" let anyone there know his loyalties.

The next tilt had seen Ser Lionel Pine of Lone Tree Hall; he was defeated by his elder brother Percival, the new lord of Maiden's Ridge. Percy Pine, or Percy the Pariah, as some called him, had only recently returned to the noble ranks, having won a lordship from the Teyrn of Highever for gallantry for his service during the recent civil war, and all after his father had disowned him.

Oz smiled slightly.

It seemed that the Maker now smiled on Lord Percival.

The next tilt had seen the return of Ser Alden Callaway, an easy victory for the seasoned knight. He had been a champion a few years back during a tourney for Duncan of the Grey Wardens in Highever. The Callaways were not a wealthy family, but had a long history. If Ser Alden won the prize, the wealth being offered would go a long way to restoring his storied house.

The fourth tilt had seen the arrival of Ser Gorman Wright of West Hill, champion of Arl Wulfe, and often called the flame of the west for his bright red hair. Though his hair had grayed much over the last twenty five years, the man still jousted like he was in his teens. He defeated one of Lord Honeywell's sons, who had probably thought the old man an easy target.

Young Lord Honeywell had been wrong.

On and on the afternoon had gone. Tilt after tilt as knights eliminated their rivals. So far there had been few surprises, veterans out-performing the new blood. So, when Ser Perth of Redcliffe was called to face Eagan the Cat, the crowd took notice.

Lord Honeywell chuckled at the sight of the cat in his plain armor,

"Hedge knights," he snorted, "Won't they ever learn?"

The Redboar leaned closer.

"I know that coat of arms," he murmured, "That's old Desmond's sigil is it not?"

"I think so," Ser Striker chuckled, "Grandson probably, though why anyone would take up the cat's mantle is beyond me."

The three lords had chuckled at that, even though Oz found it not a bit amusing.

He frowned slightly.

He was more than a little surprised by the amount of disrespect.

Desmond the Cat had been around since his father had been a boy. The Cat was well known, he was a hedge knight as famed for his travels as he was for his mediocrity. He had never been a champion anywhere, but had also been said to have travelled everywhere. He had sworn his sword to dozens of lords and noble causes over the years, and never had disgraced himself. His father had even taken the man on once or twice, he had never been anything grand, but he had been loyal.

Such a thing should neither have been easily dismissed nor forgotten.

Ser Desmond had been a man of honor.

It was too rare a thing in these times.

They all watched as the two knights took their places. Ser Perth of Redcliffe was a heavy favorite in this match, what the man had done during the defense of Redcliffe was well remembered.

The master of games signaled them to ride on.

Ser Eagan the Cat yowled out a battle cry, the sound of an angry tom about to spring upon its prey. The two knights lowered their lances and charged.

Lance met shield, and exploded into splinters.

Oz winced as the hedge knight was driven back, but still managed to remain in the saddle. Ser Perth was rocked by the force of the strike but managed to do the same.

The crowd roared.

Four more lances did the two warriors break, after the second it seemed that Ser Eagan would fall, but the hedge knight held fast. After that the jokes about his grandsire ceased. Desmond the Cat may have never been great.

Ser Eagan showed promise of being something more.

On their fourth pass, finally did one of the knights fall, though not the one that most people had expected.

Ser Perth fell hard into the sand and saw dust. He had been favoring his shield arm since the second tilt. The Cat had picked up on that, and had struck accordingly.

The captain of the knights of Redcliffe ended his match in the dirt.

Ser Eagan dismounted quickly after the man fell. Ser Perth was slow to rise, yet had showed no sign of yielding, most would have thought that the Cat was going to the sword, to force the more seasoned warrior to yield.

Again the hedge knight surprised everyone.

He went to his opponent, checking to see if he was badly injured, then in a show of greater chivalry, Ser Eagan the Cat helped his opponent to his feet. Perth wobbled slightly, but finally did manage to find his balance.

As one the two knights faced the royal box. Ser Perth shocked everyone by raising his opponent's hand in victory.

The small folk watching went wild.

The Redboar and his guests also stood and clapped for the display of gallantry. The captain of Redcliffe had proven both his valor and honor. Even in defeat, the other man had won.

Ser Eagan would continue on, but Ser Perth would leave with his honor plain for all to see.

Few men could have claimed such an honor.

After the Cat had helped Ser Perth over to his squire and retainers, the hedge knight returned to his small tent on the far side of the field. It may not have been a true pavilion, but if its owner continued to perform as he had already, he would soon have the wealth needed to change that.

Oz clapped the loudest as the victor left the field. If he did enter the list tomorrow, he did know one thing.

He would not be so quick to challenge the cat.

The hedge knight might not have been noble, but one thing was for sure.

This cat…had claws.

The tilts continued on late into the afternoon.

The tourney had just begun.

IOI

Alim watched as the sun made its way across the sky and started to dip into the west. Knights continued their battle, while he drifted among the elves and the rest of the small folk.

A few of the day's early winners had found themselves challenged in the afternoon. Ser Percival, Ser Gorman, and Ser Alden had all faced at least two challenges, and all three had come through unscathed. Ser Aubrey Black had already held off _**three**_ challengers, all of them young upstarts looking to make a name no doubt.

The warden sighed.

Beyond the challenges, he had found nothing to suggest something ill was happening behind the scenes here, perhaps Chancellor Eamon's instincts had been wrong.

He suspected that the master of games would be calling a halt to the action soon. The feast would no doubt soon to begin, and the nobles would be hungry after such an exciting afternoon.

Though he could not attend himself, he would speak with Oz after; find out what his friend had heard in the royal box. He…

"A _**new**_ challenger has entered the lists!"

The announcement took everyone by surprised. Most would have thought that any new blood would wait until tomorrow to reveal themselves.

It seemed that someone simply could not wait that long.

A lone knight entered the field, clad in gilded steel plate armor, with a black helm and breast plate. He kept his visor down, so Alim could not see his face, not even as he rode past.

The man rode up to the lords' box and dipped his lance in a token of respect, and then he galloped off to face his possible challengers.

"Ser Vickon of the Crowned Mabari will fight," the master of games shouted.

The crowd fell silent, for the briefest of moments; you could have heard a pin drop.

The man was of the Crowned Mabari mercenary company.

Even Alim knew what _**that**_ meant.

Officially, the Crowned Mabari was just another mercenary company, one of many selling their blades in the aftermath of the Blight.

Unofficially…well…

Alim's elven ears lowered.

The presence of the Crowned Mabari here changed everything.

Now he _**knew**_ that something was going on.

IOI

Oz gave Ser Adam Redboar a curious look.

I had no idea that the Crowned Mabari was invited to this event?"

The older man shrugged.

"The Red Iron are here," he answered, "And the Crimson Oars, and some of the White Falcons as well. Prize money draws not just nobles, ser knight."

Oz watched as the Crowned Mabari warrior sauntered down to where the day's champions awaited. No doubt he was going to challenge one himself.

Ogre's Bane frowned.

The Crowned Mabari had been very active in the last few months. They had even offered their services to his lord father. If all they wanted was coin, that would be one thing, but that was never the case.

The nobles all knew who ran the Crowned Mabari, and what they **truly** wanted.

Their leader, a man calling himself Maric the Younger had appeared during the inquest against King Alistair offering up proof of both noble pedigree, and family ties.

The man claimed to be the illegitimate grandson of the late King Brandol, King Alistair's great grandfather, and therefore the true heir to the throne. The court had not accepted his claim, but that did not mean they had not listened to him, or forgotten.

The name of Maric the Younger was still on everyone's lips, and now here was this young man, likely one of his two sons, competing side by side with the greatest knights of the realm.

Such a thing was not a coincidence.

IOI

Tristan Merry was near the pavilions of the champions of the day as Ser Vickon rode up, the man's red Ferelden Forder seemed to prance in anticipation as the knight approached the hanging shields; a single tap on one with a lance was all that was needed to issue a challenge.

The man raised his visor, showing off a handsome face, with clear blue eyes and a cruel sneer. He passed Ser Percival, Ser Callaway, and Ser Wright, an amused smirk upon his face. He brought his horse to a stop near Ser Eagan's small tent. The knight, a beardless youth with short cropped black hair, stood clearly ready to accept the man's challenge.

No lack of fight in this one, Tristan thought, as the mercenary would discover if he pressed the issue.

The Crowned Mabari man laughed at the hedge knight's meager possessions, the patchwork tent that served as his pavilion.

"Fear not little kitten," he chuckled, "You're time will come soon enough."

He rode past without a word. The cat glared at him, but said nothing, choosing to hold his tongue.

He stopped before Ser Aubrey Black of Highever.

He raised his lance and tapped the man's shield.

"For the king, good ser," Vickon sang out mockingly.

He rode to his place at the end of the list, readying his steed for battle.

The knight from Highever did not hesitate, he donned his helmet and gloves picked up his shield and rode out ready to face the dog of a mercenary.

When the master of games called for them to ride on, both of them charged without a hint of hesitation. Ser Aubrey's cry of "For the King!" rang out strong and proud.

Once again lances exploded, and once again neither man was unseated.

Tristan moved in to get a closer look, he found himself standing nearby Ser Eagan the Cat, the Hedge Knight did not notice him, too caught up in the action on the field.

Ser Aubrey and Vickon broke two more lances against each other, and each time the Crowned Mabari man called out "Well struck, but _**not**_ well enough" in his mocking voice. On the fourth, it was clear that Highever's champion intended to end his opponent's arrogance.

"For the King!" again rang out across the field.

Both men charged.

Ser Aubrey's lance exploded against Ser Vickon's shield.

Ser Vickon's went up high.

The knight from Highever was flung back off his horse, which reared up and fell as its master's grip spasmed and released his grip.

The horse crashed down, screaming for all to hear.

Cries of dismay and shock rang out across the tourney.

Next to Tristan, Ser Eagan the Cat let out a high pitched cry and looked away, perhaps not what a knight should have done, but understandable given the result.

Ser Aubrey Black lay in the sand and sawdust, his legs twitching, a shard of broken lance sticking out of the eye slit of his helmet.

Blood began to pool beneath him.

Servants from Highever ran out onto the field as Ser Vickon turned his horse, the Crowned Mabari man waited until the state of his opponent was known, not that he did not realize what he had done, not if the smile that remained on his face was any indication, a smile made even more clear when he raised his visor.

There were no calls for healers; they would not have done any good.

The crowd had fallen silent, murmurs of disbelief and shock ran through them.

IOI

In the royal box, Ser Oz looked on in horror. Occasionally a death would happen at a tourney, but that still did not take away the shock.

Next to him, Ser Adam Redboar shook his head.

"Poor lad," he murmured, "An unfortunate accident."

Oz gave the man an arched look.

 _Accident?_

He had seen Ser Vickon jerk his lance up at the last moment. It could have been a rookie mistake, but he had seen the man ride in the first three tilts. The Crowned Mabari man was no novice.

 _If_ _ **that**_ _had been an accident…he was the Empress of Orlais!_

Ser Vickon approached the dais and bowed his head slightly.

The master of games still declared him the winner, despite what had happened.

He turned his horse and rode back towards his pavilion.

IOI

Alim watched as Ser Vickon rode past, most people would have been shamed to claim victory in such a manner. Most knights would have lowered their sigil, at least as a show of respect.

He might have been wrong but he thought he heard the man whistling a merry tune as his horse cantered past.

"For the king," Ser Vickon chuckled to himself.

The elf's eyes narrowed.

Blood had been spilled on the tourney grounds.

He did not thing that it would be the last.


	3. The Cat

**Chapter 3: The Cat**

 _I still miss you, grandfather. I cannot help it. I still do._

Maegan stared up at the sky; she had set up her tent just far enough away that she would be able to see when the stars came out. All around her the raucous noise of the Redboar tourney continued, but for just a moment. The hedge knight who had been named Maegan, who now called herself Ser Eagan the Cat, was free to look up into the heavens.

The beautiful sight made her sad; all those stars, it reminded her of all those times on the road with her Grandfather. Ser Desmond the Cat had not been a family-type of man, but he had done the best he could with her, raised her the only way he had known.

He taught me well, she thought, he might not have known about a girl's flattery or skills, but he did know the sword and the lance, and under his tutelage she had grown very good at both.

She had tried to be a dutiful squire, even though she had faltered some times.

She had become his squire at seven, when her parents had died of a fever that had swept through their little village. A strange sickness that, she remembered. The very young were spared, but so many strong men and women had perished, by the end only a few chantry sisters had remained, and they had been hard-pressed to serve their greatly diminished flock.

She probably would have been sent to the chantry, like many of the other orphan girls were. She likely would have been Sister Maegan by now, Andraste help her. Her Grandfather had saved her from that. Meg was not sure how they had found him, but he showed up for her just the same. Though he had travelled far and wide, he had never ranged far from his daughter, even though he had never been much a father to her.

He had loved her grandmother, he had said so many times, but the life of a hedge knight was not an easy or a wealthy one. He travelled much, and never was able to bring home a champion's purse. He had hoped for a son, a boy he could take to squire and teach all he had learned, but instead he had had a daughter, and Ser Desmond's wife would not let him take her off, no daughter of hers was going to be a hedge knight. Grandmother had been a shopkeeper's daughter and that had served her well. It had kept her and her child fed during the lean times. Eventually she had married a farmer and had a daughter of her own.

The thought made Meg sigh.

She had so few memories of her parents, that life now seemed like a hazy dream. She remembered wearing dresses, and playing by the fire while her mother tended to their coin.

A simple life that had been, one void of valor and courage, it might have been enough had her grandfather not shown her his world, the life that had kept him travelling for so many years; that was the life she had come to embrace.

Ser Desmond knew nothing of raising a girl, it was why mother had stayed with his wife, been raised by Grandmother and her cousins. Meg did not have that option. Her Grandfather did the best he could and raised her the only way he knew. He had cut her hair and took her to squire. She had cleaned his mail, washed his clothes, and brushed and tended to the horses. Though girl knights were known to travel Ferelden, Ser Desmond had thought it wiser that his squire be a boy.

"We walk in dark places little Meg," he had said, "Harsh and cruel men dwell there."

He had given her a sad look.

"I would never want to see one of them hurt you."

So little Meg had become Eagan the squire, and travelled at her grandfather's side. He had taught her sword and lance, chivalry, and a knight's courtesy. Yet even he could not hold back time. The tiny child she had been continued to grow, and it became harder and harder for her to pass as a boy. At thirteen he realized that she was almost a woman grown, and had offered to take her back to the village that had been her home so long ago. Her father's family still lived there; her cousins were there at least.

If she wished, he was willing to let her go, let her become the lady her mother would have wanted.

The offer made her laugh.

She had been a squire for so long.

She had no idea how to be a lady.

Meg has smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

"I know who I am Ser," she had said, "And I know what I want."

"I want to be a knight."

They had continued on then, with no further talk of her returning to the village. When the Blight hit, they had been serving in Gwaren, sworn to the Castellan there, doing what they could to keep the refugees that were trying to escape the darkspawn from sacking the town.

Her grandfather had been hurt during one of those fights. He had been caught by a rusty dirk, wielded by some terrified refugee. The Castellan's people had done what they could, but the wound went bad, and her grandfather weakened quickly.

Meg could do nothing but watch as the man who had taught her everything he had known left this world. Yet even as he lay in the grips of fever, he did not forget his duty to her. Even as a chantry sister tended to him, he had shouted for his sword, and commanded that she kneel before him.

Before he left this world, Ser Desmond the Cat had knighted his young squire. She had sworn her oath to defend the weak and uphold the good. As she cried for him, he raised her up, no longer a squire, but a full knight.

Ser Desmond the Cat, her grandfather had passed on two days later, but in his passing he had made her what he had promised when she had been thirteen.

Ser Maegan the Cat **was** a knight.

That was less than a year ago. She had only just turned sixteen years old.

Grandfather's possessions had been meager at best. They had no pavilion, only a small tent. Never a big man, she had been able to fit into his armor thank the Maker, with a good deal of padding, though the breast plate was a tad too tight after she had hit her growth spurt. His longsword and kite shield fir her hand like it belonged there, after so many nights of cleaning and servicing the weapons, she knew them like she knew her own hand.

When she caught word of the Redboar's tourney, and the prize on offer, she had ridden without a moment's hesitation. Grandfather had never been a champion, but that did not mean he had never tasted victory. He had won several tilts during his day, and had spoken often of the purses that a lording would offer to ransom back his armor and horse.

She thought of entering the archery contest, but her skills with a bow were meager at best. She did not really have the size for the melee, but she was quick and sly, if she found an ally she might have been able to take the day.

No, she thought, Grandfather always said you rode well, and handled the lance as well as he had in his prime.

Stick with what you are good at.

When she had signed up for the lists, she could have used her real name, yet her grandfather's warnings about hard men and dark places held true. Plus, she did not wish for any knight or lordling to go easy on her, which they might if they thought her a woman.

No, she would know her true quality, and they would all come to know hers.

So it was Ser Eagan, not Maegan that entered the tourney.

It was Ser Eagan that had unseated Ser Perth of Redcliffe.

The captain had come to her humbly after her victory; he had bowed his head and offered up the standard ransom purse for his horse and armor. She had been tempted to keep his warhorse. Old Crusader had carried her grandfather for many a year, and it would have been good to have a strong young mount, yet, she had decided against it.

She had accepted the knight's coin humbly and without a hint of arrogance.

That pleased Ser Perth greatly.

"Will you attend the feast Ser Eagan?" he had asked, "All winners are welcome I've heard."

"I have heard this as well," she had said in her gruff "Ser Eagan" voice. "The invitation is an honor to be sure, but…"

She frowned slightly.

"It is not right to sit and drink beside a murderer so well rewarded for his crime."

Ser Perth pursed his lips.

He knew of who she spoke.

The death of Ser Aubrey Black had dampened the mood of the tourney, that and the fact that Vickon the Vicious was now being honored beside so many others, so many **true** knights, it turned the Cat's stomach.

No, she would not share in the feast, sausage and salted beef would serve her better tonight, and thanks to the coin she had just gotten from the Captain of Redcliffe, she had enough money for a horn of the good wine the sellers were offering.

That was all the feast that Ser Maegan required.

"As you wish," he had said with a slight bow, "Good luck to you in the lists tomorrow Ser."

"Safe journey, Captain," she had said back.

Once he had left she had returned her attention to the stars, how many a night had she lay on her back staring up at them. How many nights had she fallen asleep to the sound of crickets and her grandfather's voice, so gruff, yet so kind.

She smiled slightly.

 _I miss you grandfather,_ she thought, _I know it is not knightly, but I do._

 _I miss you so much._

Her small fire crackled, she paused to turn the sausage she was cooking, checking briefly on the salted beef she had left to soak in a fine brown ale.

She smiled slightly.

 _It would still taste like leather, but it would serve._

"Good evening Ser Knight."

She looked over to see who had spoken. She spotted a small elven man in dirty leathers and an old straw hat. He was slender for one of his kind, and not very tall, in the fading light his large expressive brown eyes seemed to glow like a cat's. Large elven ears twitched nervously, the tip of the right one bore a deep notch, like someone had taken a blade to it.

She smiled slightly.

Most knights would not even have acknowledge such a man, clearly an elven servant, but she had her grandfather had supped around many a travelling elf's cook fire.

She would not try to chase this one off just because she had had a good day. She would show him courtesy, if he tried to steal from her, she would act accordingly.

"Good evening," she responded, "Would you like to share my fire? The night promises to be a bit cool."

The elf grinned widely.

"Bless you, ser," he said sinking down across from her. He removed his hat showing spikey brown hair, brown hair streaked with premature gray. The elf did not seem very old, likely only a few years older than her.

Yet…his eyes, she noticed as he smiled at her.

The elf had **old** eyes.

"I'm Ser Eagan the Cat," she said gruffly.

"I'm Lem," he said, "Kennel Hand of Dragon's Peak."

She gave him an arched look.

"You do not sound like you are from Dragon's Peak?"

He chuckled.

"You have a good ear, ser," he said flashing her a mad cap grin, ""I was from Lothering, before…"

She frowned slightly.

She had heard about Lothering, she and Grandfather had passed through there a few times.

It was gone now, she had heard, like so many villages before the horde.

The elf shifted, trying to get comfortable. Her eyes drifted to his hands.

 _Try to see everything Meg,_ her grandfather had warned, _the world is a dangerous place._

 _Always be aware, see everything._

"Did you fight in the war?" she asked.

His ears twitched at her question, yet the smile never left his face.

"What makes you say that?"

"Your hands," she said pointing, then holding up her own, the flesh was callused in the same places.

"You have held a longsword it seems," she said, "Not many kennel hands likely have?"

Lem chuckled.

"Good eyes and ears too, you are most fortunate Ser Knight," he said, "To answer your question, yes, I was conscripted to fight."

"On which side?"

The elf gave her a sly look.

"On the side of Ferelden, of course," he replied.

The evasion set up warning bells, yet she still did not try to drive him off.

Something in those eyes told her that whatever this man was, he was no throat-cutter or outlaw.

The clink of armor caused them to look up that and the startled sound of the crowd nearby.

Maegan's eyes narrowed.

Ser Vickon of the Crowned Mabari made his way through the crowd, flanked by four of his bodyguards. The youngest son of Maric the Younger was dressed in fine black and gold silks this evening, the sigil of his company adorned across his breast like a badge of honor.

The cat glared at him.

Vickon the Vicious might call himself a knight, but…

…in her eyes, the man had _**no**_ honor.

The guards' armor mirrored their lead's colors, all gold trim and black steel. Out of his armor, Vickon was a slender young man, his features proud and handsome, yet his lip never seemed to lose the cruel sneer that Meg had seen the moment he had approached her during the tourney.

 _Your time will come,_ he had warned her.

Meg's hands tightened into fists.

When that time came, she would be ready.

She would not meet her end like Ser Aubrey. If she faced Vickon before this tourney was done, she would not hesitate. She would shield her neck and head during their bout, and when she unseated him she would dismount with sword in hand. She did not think the man capable of the same gallantry as Ser Perth. He would not yield, and she would not want him to.

They would dance, and if she happened to miss it when he said "I yield" if her blade ended his life, she was more than willing to do penance in the chantry later.

Ser Desmond's face seemed to appear before her, the old man gave her a disapproving frown.

 _That is not how I taught you to behave girl. That is not how a knight of the realm acts._

 _He has no honor grandfather,_ she thought, defending her desires.

 _He would **deserve** it._

Vickon paid neither her nor her elven guest any notice, he sipped idly from a cup of iced wine as he made his way past the small folk and vendors. He seemed a man on a mission this eve, when he should have been at the feast already.

A man on a mission, she thought.

She realized that she felt sorry for…somebody.

Trailing behind the mercenary were three young women, all three lithe and beautiful, clad in gowns of golden silk, one dark haired, one blonde, one red. They said nothing to no one as they passed, their eyes were glassy, their faces as blank as an empty page. When Vickon stopped they stopped as well, all three swayed slightly, but did not appear drunk.

One looked at Maegan, that empty stare gave her the shivers.

 _Maker's breath,_ she thought.

 _What had the vicious one done to them?!_

She looked over at her elven guest; he was also watching Vickon, his brown eyes evaluating the mercenary, almost dissecting him.

Meg felt grateful that the elf had not turned that gaze on her. She did not know who he was, but one thing was for certain.

He was no mere kennel hand.

"Those poor girls," he said, "What do you think he did to them?"

The Cat shrugged.

"Better we not know."

"Perhaps," he nodded.

After that, they returned to the fire. She offered him one of her sausages, which he gratefully accepted. For a time they sat there saying nothing at all, listening to the sounds of the tourney grounds.

She caught him looking up at the stars as well, a constellation she knew well.

Alindra and her Soldier.

The elf's expression seemed sad, but a hint of a smile played across his lips.

"Are you well," she asked.

The elf gave her a humble smile.

"Just thinking of my family," he said, "My wife and daughter."

She smiled slightly.

"Are they far away?"

"Not really," he said, "Yet it seems that I'm always being pulled away from them. My… _duties_ keep me on the road."

"Sounds familiar," she said.

He nodded knowingly.

"Dragon's Peak must be a busy place for Kennel Hands," she said dryly.

He grinned at her.

"I'm guessing you know that I'm not really a kennel hand?"

"The thought had occurred to me, yes."

He laughed lightly.

"I will make you a deal, ser knight," he said, "You say nothing about me, and I will say nothing about you being a woman."

Her eyes widened.

"I…But…but I'm not…"

He raised his hand.

"Fear not, ser knight," he said, "My lips are sealed."

She gave him a chagrinned look. She **had** let the gruffness slip out of her voice while they had been talking, she realized that now, and even with her short cropped hair and dirty face, she still was not entirely unknowable.

 _The Maker made you a girl,_ her grandfather had said, _and lately he has been more **generous** with his gifts._

She had blushed and tried to deny it, but any mirror would reveal the truth in those words.

"How did you know?" she asked.

"Because I have eyes," he said, "And these are not simply for show."

He wiggled his large elven ears.

She chuckled at that.

Whatever he was, she decided she like this elf. He was probably some kind of spy, but for whom? He did not seem the type to work for the Crowned Mabari; he did not have their cruel swagger. Maybe he served one of the other merc bands…

Perhaps he served the Bann of Dragon's Peak, or maybe the Redboar himself?

Whatever he was, she would keep his secret, as long as he kept hers.

The tourney was not over yet…

…and she still had many opponents to face. She…

A pained scream rang out, bringing both her and the elf to their feet.

Meg's hand was on her longsword in second.

"What was that?!" she said.

Another scream rang out, and a cruel laugh.

Meg's eyes narrowed.

 _She **knew** that laugh._

 _ **Vickon!**_

She dashed off towards the scream.

The elf hesitated only a moment before he followed.

IOI

Alim maneuvered through the crowd, he asked that the wind help nudge people out of his way, which helped.

Some gasped at the sudden breeze, but they did make a hole, a hole he quickly ran through.

He smiled slightly.

To all these people it no doubt appeared that he was unarmed.

Those people would be wrong, as they would soon discover, and so would Ser Vickon of the Crowned Mabari.

He did not know what the would-be lordling was up to but one thing was certain.

It would stop…now.


	4. Feasting

**Chapter 4: Feasting**

" **To the King!"**

All goblets were raised as Ser Adam Redboar led the toast. Knights from around the realm all raised their glasses, toasting both the health and the reign of good King Alistair. The main hall of their hosts holdings were packed to bursting; only the most slender of men and women could have made it through. Elven servants moved to and fro through the crowd, making sure every cup was filled before the next toast.

Ser Oswald had lost count of how many toasts he had drank. To the king yes, and to their host, and the Lord Chancellor, and then one to the Maker himself for granting them all this most glorious day, toast followed toast as the wine continued to flow. The young knight's head swam from too much strong wine. After the first glass, he was starting to wonder if the servants had watered it down at all; it certainly did not taste like it.

He shook his head, trying to clear the buzzing, yet it seemed to be no use.

 _Maker_ , he thought, _this must be what one of Lord Honeywell's bee hives feel like, if they could feel that is._

Oz had been trying to keep his wits, to make sure that he was at least aware of the world around him should he choose to joust tomorrow…

..Yet the servants kept filling his cup, it would be rude not to drink when toasting either the king or a noble lord, very rude indeed.

 _It was a bit of a sacrifice,_ he thought with a hiccup, _but he would try to be brave._

Ser Adam had once again invited him to share a seat of honor. He had thought that a bit excessive, but the man would not take no for an answer. He sat to the left of their host, next to Lords Honeywell and Stryker. The man they had called Ser Maron remained close to the lord and his eldest son. Who exactly the man was, Oz still did not know, He wore no sigil, and though his clothing was fine, fit for a lordling, Oswald had no memory of ever having seen him among the nobles his father had met with before.

Not that I would likely recognize him right now if he did. Wine had a way of playing tricks on your memory, and right now. Ser Oswald Ogre's Bane was firmly in its grip.

Yet, in spite of being more than a little intoxicated, he still managed to retain his noble honor. So far he had avoided embarrassing either himself or his house.

Of course, the night is still young of course, he thought stifling a giggle.

Nope, he would not embarrass his family.

If the Maker remained with him, he hoped to stay that course.

The death of Ser Aubrey during the last tilt had dampened some of the merry making. No one made any accusation of murder towards the knight from the Crowned Mabari, but it was there none the less. The table was meant for both the lords and the champions of the day, yet three seats sat empty. Ser Eagan, Lord Percival, and Ser Vickon had apparently decided not to attend. The first two were missed, the third was not...

As the suckling pig was brought out, and wine continued to flow, all talk of the sad final tilt of the day ceased. The food, jugglers, and music quickly drew the attention of the men at the seat of honor, and talk turned to more pleasant mattered.

"It had been too long since we had some true merry making," Ser Gorman Wright said.

The gray haired, flame of the west smiled one of his rare smiles.

"It is a about time that things started to return to normal."

"Is that even possible Milord," one of Honeywell's sons asked, the one that Ser Wright had not defeated earlier.

The man favored the boy with a brave look.

"We recovered from the fight against Orlais, boy," he said, "Ferelden can recover from this."

"Well said," Ser Alden said from his place of honor, bringing his tankard down hard on the table. "Ferelden will recover."

"Indeed," the Red Boar said nodding, "A recovery that truly begins here."

Oz gave him a curious look, not sure what their host meant by that. Before he could ask Lord Honeywell started speaking again.

"We are glad that you joined us here young Oswald, for too long had Dragon's Peak been isolated."

The young knight shrugged.

"Oswyn is still healing," he said, "And my father still has much rebuilding to do, we all do truth be told."

Again Honeywell nodded.

"My family has always been a strong supporter of Dragon's Peak and your lord father, perhaps your presence here is a fortuitous one for both of us."

Oz smiled respectfully.

"What makes you say that Milord?"

Honeywell grinned.

"As it just so happens, my eldest girl has just turned fourteen. Give her another year and she would make you a fine wife, my young friend. She would make an excellent match for a future lord of Dragon's Peak."

Oz blushed slightly. Suddenly he realized why Honeywell had been so friendly since he arrived.

"You flatter me Milord," he said, "Alas; such a thing is beyond my choosing. I have already been promised you see. I'm to wed Lady Johain Speare. She is the daughter of Ser Buford Speare.

The older man nodded.

A fair match, to be sure," he said, the man did a good job of masking any anger or disappointment he felt at Oz's rejection. "You must be very proud."

Oz nodded more out of duty than anything else.

In truth, he could not say if the match was a good one or not. Ser Buford was one of his father's most loyal banners, and his house was known for producing some of the best Spearmen in Ferelden, hence where the family had gotten its name. Speare family soldiers had stood at the van during the siege of Denerim, they had kept the darkspawn off the mages that had ascended Fort Drakon to fight the Archdemon, or so he had heard.

As for Johain, he had not seen her since they were eight, back then she had looked like a fat little boy, hardly someone that he would want to share his life and his bed with, but then again what could he do…

Family was family.

"Plus." He added, trying not to slur his speech, "You are forgetting something, I'm fourth in line, and likely to go lower if Oswyn has any children."

Surprisingly, it was not Honeywell who answered him, but the knight Maron sitting down beside Lord Redboar.

"Things do not always happen as they should," the mystery knight said, "A new Ferelden is dawning."

Both his host and the Honeywells nodded.

"You must be willing to _embrace_ change," Ser Maron added.

Oz did not know how to respond to that, so he chose to say nothing. He still did not know this Ser Maron's place among the Redboar's people. He did his best to see the man, truly see him despite all the wine he had drank.

Ser Maron was probably in his mid to late twenties, he had a stocky build with short blond hair and a closely trimmed beard. There was something about his eyes though…something familiar, though Oz could not place it.

In the end, he simply smiled and nodded. It was as safe a response as he could think of. He had no desire to insult a man not when he did not know what the consequences might be.

He went silent then, letting the rest of the lords turn their attention elsewhere, and why not? What did the fate of a Bann's sixteen year old son matter when so much else was going on in Ferelden?

He was grateful when the conversation turned away from him, and his family.

"I've heard a rumor that the Chancellor has turned to Nevarra to find a bride for our king," Ser Alden said.

"A fine match if Eamon can make it all work out," Ser Gorman said, "May our king's union be blessed and fruitful. It has been a long time since the royal tree has yielded any royal fruit."

Honeywell's younger son laughed.

"At least Eamon did not go sniffing around in Orlais, that is probably what got Cailan killed."

Both Ser Alden and Ser Gorman glared at the young man. Who was probably too drunk to realize how close he was to insulting everyone.

King Cailan's death at Ostagar had led many people to lionize the man now that he was at the Maker's side, alas; rumors of his mistakes in life still remained.

Everyone had heard the tale of course. It was suspected that Cailan had had greater ambitions than anyone had realized that he had considered throwing off his wife and marrying Empress Celene so that he might get the chance to start calling himself emperor.

Some said that Loghain MacTir had discovered that, and rather than risk his daughter or the country he loved, he chose instead to betray Cailan to the darkspawn. It was likely impossible to prove now, but the tale remained.

True or, not it was still a touchy subject, many scars still remained from the recent Civil War, and a lot of bad blood still flowed beneath the surface. Both Cailan and Loghain still had many supporters among the lords, and more than a few were unhappy with what had come to pass since. Cailan and Loghain were both dead, and Maric's bastard son now sat on the throne.

After all that had happened few would speak out against the new king, not while the kingdom was still weak, still rebuilding.

This tourney was about rebuilding after all, such foolish comments could end with tearing things apart.

Suddenly feeling very awkward, not to mention having to take a piss, Ser Oswald excused himself. He made his way out of the crowded dining hall, claiming that he needed to get some air.

Oz was grateful as she stepped out into the cool night air, the gentle summer breeze felt good after the heat and crowd of the feasting hall.

After he relieved himself he headed back to his pavilion, he wanted to check in with Alim and Tristan, see what they might have discovered.

He could not say that he had found much tonight. The talk had been awkward, but nothing that he could say was openly treasonous.

He frowned slightly, thinking about what Ser Maron had said about the world changing, and needing to accept the unexpected.

Mysterious perhaps…those words, but again, not treasonous.

He would check in with his friend the warden and see what he had to say.

He made his way across the tourney grounds; the crowd was starting to disperse finally, as people settled in to rest for the night. In the morrow, the jousting would begin again, with the archery challenge set for the afternoon.

By the end of the second day, they would have a better idea of the true contenders for the title of champion would be.

And hopefully they would have a better idea if this trip had been for naught.

He had been about to slip into his tent, to either wait for his allies or to pass out, when he heard a girl scream. He was not sure what truly motivated him, but he turned and ran to see if he could help.

The crowd parted before him, many no doubt recognizing the noble sigil on his tunic. The girl screamed again, a scream that was punctuated by cruel laughter.

Oz's eyes narrowed.

He knew that laugh, the mocking tone of the voice.

He unsheathed his sword.

At least now he knew why Ser Vickon had not been at the feast. It seemed the man had a taste for causing trouble.

He had decided, despite his drunkenness to do something about it.

It was probably a mistake, but that did not matter.

He had sat there and did nothing when Ser Aubrey had died.

Now at least, he had a chance to do something, and fortunately, for him anyway, he found that he was not alone.

He saw Alim in his peasant's garb, as well as the hedge knight who had won earlier, Ser Eagan the Cat.

It was not hard for them to find Ser Vickon.

All they had to do was follow the screams.


	5. Stand Off

**Chapter 5: Stand Off**

" **She is a pretty little rabbit, is that not so, boys?"**

The Crowned Mabari men chuckled as Vickon held the elven girl's arm behind her back, his other arm pinning her throat. The four guards had formed a protective square around their leader, while his three women watched the scene with glassy eyes, their bodies swaying gently in the evening breeze.

The pale skin elven girl whimpered, her clothing suggested that she was the servant of one of the highborn, her long lustrous black hair flowing down to her thighs. Dark brown eyes stared up at Vickon with a mix of terror and pain.

"Please messere," she begged, "Please."

Vickon chuckled to himself.

"Truly a pretty little thing," he mused, his lips curled into a sneer, "Perhaps you are even worthy of joining my court of beauty? Would you welcome this one into your ranks, my lovelies?"

The question had been directed at the three girls, if they had an opinion on the matter they did not show it. Their faces remained slack, their eyes empty and glassy. On might have murmured softly, beyond that none responded.

The three might as well have been three dolls; they showed as much as expression as such toys would do.

Their master smiled.

"I think they find you well suited little one," he purred, "As do I."

The girl whimpered as the knight tightened his grip.

He twisted her wrist.

She cried out in agony.

Ser Maegan had seen enough.

"UNHAND HER!" the hedge knight shouted in her gruffest sounding voice.

Ser Vickon and his allies turned, the man's guards weapons turned to face her, even as she held her sword and shield before her, offering them battle.

The cat glared, she might have been outnumbered, but righteous fury had made her brave.

Brave or foolish?

The Maker would determine.

"Let the girl go, mercenary!" she spat at Vickon.

The man gave her an arched look.

"Now," she hissed.

Vickon of the Crowned Mabari laughed.

"What is this," he smirked, "A kitten and another rabbit ready for the pot?"

She then noticed that Lem, the so called Kennel hand had followed her, he had a piece of wood in hand, brandishing it like a club.

Such a weapon would do nothing against men in full armor, men no doubt well trained in the art of battle.

She wondered what it was that the elf was playing at; surely he knew he could not stand and fight at her side.

"You should listen to the knight, ser," she heard a voice slur behind them. A young noble, clearly deep in the cups but still with his sword drawn came to their side. She did not recognize the heraldry that he wore, but the shield bearing the head of a slain ogre would definitely turn heads.

Though a little unsteady, tipsy from drink, the noble at least appeared to be holding his weapons steady.

Still she did not like their chances if this turned to battle.

Vickon pulled the girl in front of him, using the whimpering elf as a shield.

The move disgusted Maegan.

Had the man no honor at all?

She briefly considered threatening one of the man's women, but from what she had seen out of Ser Vickon, it would be unlikely to do any good.

He did not seem the type to care about someone else, even if they were his…whatever the three girls were to the vicious one.

Again Vickon of the Crowned Mabari did not seem intimidated. He regarded the three facing him as one might something unappetizing on a dinner plate.

"A formidable force indeed," he said dryly, "A kitten, a drunken boy, and a rabbit with delusions of grandeur."

Vickon shook his head.

"This matter does not concern you," he growled.

"You are a disgrace, ser," Meg spat at him, "A knight is sworn to protect the weak and uphold the good."

She frowned.

"What kind of knight are you ser?"

Vickon's face twisted into a mask of rage. All sense of joking vanished.

"You should hold your tongue hedge knight, before one of your betters cut it out. The blood of the silver knight flows through my veins, the blood of kings."

He grinned savagely at them.

"You would be fools to make light of the Blood of Calenhad."

IOI

Alim's ears twitched at the knight's grand boast. It only confirmed what he had already heard about Maric the Younger and his progeny.

 _They **all** claimed to be blood of the king._

Now that he stood face to face with Ser Vickon, he could see why so many had at least considered that claim.

Despite being more slender than Alistair, Vickon did have similar features. The noses were the same, the shape of the eyes too, though Vickon's were a bright blue, and filled with contempt.

The thought gave the warden mage pause.

Were the leaders of the Crowned Mabari truly of Theirin blood? If they were that could spell deep trouble for Alistair in the near future. It was said that Maric the Younger had not abandoned his ambitions. If one of his sons was here competing…?

…It suggested that the crown might have a larger problem in dealing with the mercenaries and their allies.

Alim did his best to keep his magic in check; he still hoped to keep his true identity a secret at least for now. The club he was currently brandishing was in fact his staff, disguised as much as he was. He had only to whisper a few words and it would appear as it truly was. His sword _Spellbinder_ was similarly hidden, to any that looked upon it right now; it would seem nothing more than a sliver of metal in a servant's pocket.

If he chose to fight, he would need to reveal its true shape, and what he had hoped to accomplish here at the Redboar tourney might be lost.

He trusted in the girl's skills. He did not know why she had entered as a man, but that was not his concern.

Ogre's bait being drunk did not help either, if he had to defend his young friend?

He would speak to the boy later. Still, how was Oz to know that they would find themselves facing off against armed enemies in the middle of a tourney?

Alim had certainly not thought battle much of a possibility, not tonight anyway.

"You should all go back to whatever it was you were doing," Vickon warned them, "This matter does not concern you."

"Turn the girl loose," The Cat told him, "Do it and you won't get hurt."

Again Vickon laughed.

"I'm not the one who should worry about getting hurt," he said gesturing over their shoulder.

Alim risked a look behind them.

Two more Crowned Mabari men had appeared, both armed with crossbows…

Both were pointed at the Cat and Oz.

Alim frowned.

This situation was quickly spiraling out of control.

Alim's eyes narrowed.

 _Where was the Redboar's bloody guards,_ he wondered.

 _They had been thick as flies during the tourney. Yet now, there were none to be seen._

Vickon smirked at Oz.

"Six against three are not good odds," he said, "perhaps you should retire, or perhaps, we should **retire** you all."

Alim felt magic starting to flow, it would only take a moment to deal with the crossbowmen, if Oz and the Cat could keep the soldiers back…

That is when a man in a dirty burlap cloak staggered in front of the archers; before they could shove him away he drew a dagger and bashed one on the head, felling him.

The other crossbowman tried to bring his weapon around, but the man flowed around him, he pinned the man with a knife to his throat.

Though his face was all but hidden, Alim caught a glimpse of Tristan Merry's smile.

The elf grinned.

Four against four now, once Tristan had dealt with his last opponent, the odds were starting to turn in their favor.

Yet the Crowned Mabari still were not willing to back down.

Vickon still had a death grip on his hostage.

He glared at her would-be protectors.

"You have all made what should have been a simple matter much too complicated," he hissed.

"It is about to get **more** complicated. You vicious little shit."

Vickon glanced to his side.

A knight accompanied by two armed and armored elven squires and no less than ten guards were approaching them. They moved to surround the mercenary and his defenders.

Vickon glared at the man, clearly recognizing the man's sigil.

"This does not concern you Pine!" he snarled.

The Lord of Maiden's Ridge glared back.

"It is **Lord** Percival to you, you cocky little git," the man replied. Lord Percy was a large man, broad shouldered with shoulder length unruly black hair, and the barest stubble of a beard.

His two elven squires both carried sword and shields. Both brown haired with similar green eyes, brothers more like as not. They all wore the sigil of Maiden's Ridge, a red maiden's head on a white and black checkered field.

Though Pine had made one change to that sigil since he had taken over, Alim noticed.

The maiden's face now had two pointed ears.

Vickon, for the first time looking a little concerned, glanced around at the armor that surrounded him.

When Lord Percy spoke to him again it was in a voice as cold as ice, and as commanding as any general.

"Release the girl," he ordered.

"Now."

Vickon of the Crowned Mabari sneered, but obeyed, the girl, sobbing softly slipped out between Vickon's guards, Ogre's Bane led her away from the brewing trouble.

The lead of the Crowned Mabari raised his hands, yet his eyes still flashed with defiance.

"Satisfied?" he asked Lord Pine.

There was a brief pause, as the lord considered what he had seen.

Finally, he nodded.

"For now," the lord of Maiden's Ridge said motioning for his men to lower their weapons.

Tristan released the crossbowman he had been holding hostage while the one he had knocked down groaned and started crawling back to the protection of his fellows. Their fellows glared at them, but helped the wounded man to his feet.

Vickon kept Lord Pine under his cruel stare, if looks could burn, the Lord of Maiden's Ridge would have been a pile of ash.

"Let 'em through," Pine ordered his guards.

They split apart so that mercenaries could leave.

"Get outta here," Pine told the Crowned Mabari, "And tell that brother of yours what happens to his scum when they pick on defenseless women."

Vickon chuckled.

"I suppose I should not be surprised," he spat, "Tell me, _**Milord**_ ," he made Pine's title sound like an insult.

"Does that girl remind you of your rabbit wi…"

Before anyone could move, Lord Percival drew his great sword and roared. He swung at Vickon, the man tried to back pedal but there was nowhere for him to go.

The blade stopped merely a breath from the man's throat.

Vickon of the Crowned Mabari did not even flinch.

Lord Pine glared at him, a look of barely contained rage flashing in the man's eyes.

"Mention my first wife in such a tone again, and your head will be rolling through this camp. This I swear."

If Vickon was frightened he did not show it.

He gave the lord of Maiden's Ridge a fierce look.

"If we are going to draw steel," he said, leaning into the blade, the sharpness of it left a tiny cut on his left cheek.

"At least draw a little blood."

The sight disturbed even Alim.

He had thought Vickon of the Crowned Mabari merely cruel.

What he had just seen suggested something more.

Something worse.

Lord Percy withdrew his blade.

"Get outta here," he spat.

"As you say, Milord," Vickon said with a bow that bordered on disrespectful.

"Boys, ladies," he called to his fellows, "Let us retire."

The Crowned Mabari men sheathed their weapons, but glared hatefully at Ser Percival's men as they took their leave. The three women that had accompanied Vickon fell in step beside him, they did not seem like they were even aware that the confrontation had occurred.

One of them, the dark haired girl looked at Alim; her glassy stare did not even seem to acknowledge him.

The sight made him shudder.

It reminded him a bit of the tranquil back at the tower, only somehow much worse.

Vickon smirked at the Cat and Oz as he passed by.

"See you both real soon," he purred, barking a cruel laugh as he turned away.

Neither Oz nor the Cat lowered their weapons until the mercenary was out of sight. Only then did Alim relax.

Lord Percy sighed and sheathed his blade.

He walked up to Alim and his companions. Tristan had joined them now, pulling back his hood and standing beside Oz.

"Are you drunk?" he asked.

Oz shrugged.

"Only a little," he said.

The outlaw rolled his eyes.

We almost get killed, and he is drunk."

Tristan shook his head.

"Lovely time," he said under his breath.

The ruler of Maiden's Ridge came up before them, his expression jovial despite its earlier anger.

He grinned at the four of them.

"Congratulations lads," Lord Percy told them, "You have just earned the ire of Vickon the Vicious, and likely made an enemy for life."

The large man laughed a large boisterous sound.

"Must be why I think you lot will be worth liking."

Alim grinned slightly.

Vickon's laughter had been cold and menacing.

Lord Pine's seemed almost welcoming.

"Well met, Milord," The Cat said, "We are in your debt."

The large warrior snorted, and waved his hand dismissively.

"Someone needed to put that little shit in his place, especially after what happened to Ser Aubrey," he said, "I was going to wait until tomorrow when we broke lances against each other, but…"

Lord Percy chuckled again.

"You're all welcome to share a cup of wine at my pavilion," he offered, "You just made an enemy of the Crowned Mabari."

His expression turned serious.

"You should all know _**exactly**_ what that means."


	6. The Crowned Mabari

**Chapter 6: The Crowned Mabari**

"The Crowned Mabari has been causing problems since good King Maric first came to the throne," Lord Percy said with a shake of his head.

"It should come as no surprise that they would continue to cause problems now."

Alim settled down into an old chair within the Lord's Pavilion. He had to admit, it was not quite what he had expected, most lords liked to bring a small piece of their home with them. Chancellor Eamon's pavilion during the Blight was almost a royal guest room back in the castle of Redcliffe, its furnishings little different from those would find in the old Arl's castle.

Percival Pine's Pavilion was nothing like that.

Where most lords would have stocked their tent for comfort, Lord Percy seemed to favor function. Three cots lined the back wall, no more than what you might find in a military barracks, which made sense, it was said that Lord Pine had served a sell-sword before winning his lands from the Teyrn of Highever. The table and chairs might have come from some tavern given the scratched up condition they were in. Circle produced glow stones filled the tent with cheery yellow light while the lord settled down in his own chair, preparing to share his story.

The two elves that had stood at the lord's side followed him in, at first, the warden mage had taken them for simply bodyguards, but from the way they tended their lord it was clear that they were more than simple hirelings.

"Adwyn," he told the first, holding out his great sword, "See to this."

He handed the young man his sword.

"Teran," he said to the second, "Some wine for our guests…"

He paused, giving Oz a cursory glance.

"Water for this one," he added quickly, "I think he has had enough wine tonight."

"Yes father," the two elves said in unison, moving with the skill of two young men used to tending to their lord father's needs.

Alim chose to say nothing. He did not know Lord Pine well enough to make any kind of judgment. He knew the man had been banished from his noble family, disowned over some slight, though he had not heard what it was…

Oz, still deep in the cups, had no such discretion.

"Father?" he asked, giving the lord an arched look.

Fortunately, for them, Pine took no offense, he chuckled slightly.

"I married their mother when they were still in short pants," he admitted, "Maker knows why she consented to the match. She had been worth fifty of me, despite my noble blood. She took pity on a foolish noble boy who had wandered too far and too deep into the woods than he should have."

The lord shook his head.

"I should have died, the bear I had been stalking nearly did me right then and there. Then these boys' mother had found me. She was the widow of an elven wood cutter skilled in healing herbs and potions. She nursed me back to health when all others gave me up for dead or gone."

Lord Pine snorted at the memory. Yet, his expression was fond, and tinged with sadness.

"She was more noble that day then in any day I had been in my short spoiled life. She was strong, and took no shit from me. Is it any wonder that I fell so hard for her?"

He shook his head again.

"I gave up my old life for her. I gave up everything I could have been to be with her and these two ruffians."

Both of the elven boys smiled, there was no degradation in Pine's voice, only the fondness for two boys he had chosen to take as his own.

Pine snorted and wiped his eye, he might have had a single tear running down his face, but if he had, it vanished thanks to a swipe of his large hand.

"But you did not come here for **my** story," he said, "You came here to know just what type of dog you angered this night, and what the consequences might be if you're not careful."

"I have faced mercenaries before, Milord," Tristan Merry said dismissively, "Some of them were tougher than that puffed up would-be princeling that we faced tonight."

Pine looked at the outlaw and chuckled.

"Don't let the finery fool you boy," he said, "There is a good reason that people call Vickon of the Crowned Mabari, Vickon the Vicious. He is not someone to be taken lightly, mark my words."

Alim's ears twitched. After the death of the knight from Highever, he had begun asking around about Ser Vickon. Most of the people he had talked to would only say that the boy was a bad piece of work. He had heard one of the guards call the young man his father's rabid dog.

Every mercenary company needed at least one, the man had said, how else will the people learn to fear their name?

Alim was well aware of the value of a bad reputation; the grey wardens were both loved and feared, depending on the circumstances.

It was not surprising that the Crowned Mabari would seek a similar reputation.

"Ser Vickon claimed to have been blood of Calenhad," The Cat said accepting a cup of wine from one of the lord's elven sons.

"How can that be? Both Queen Moira and King Maric only produced a single heir. How could the Vicious One share that legendary bloodline?"

Pine sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

"It is a long story, ser," Pine said, "Even I only heard a little growing up with my lord father. The rest I've only heard since these Crowned Mabari bastards started flooding into Ferelden.

The man's eyes narrowed.

"If there is even a chance you might have to fight someone. It is better you know who they are."

The lord leaned back in his chair, accepting a drink from his son, while the other tended to his blade. He took a hard pull on the goblet and wiped his mouth.

"With the Mabari," he said grimly, "That fight may come sooner than anyone might think."

Lord Percy sighed and began his tale.

"It all started about sixty maybe seventy years ago, give or take, during the dark days of the Orlesian occupation. King Brandol had lost Denerim and was living in secret, moving from castle to castle, while his knights and lords, no longer trusting his rule, conducted their own guerilla war against the invaders. It was said, that during this period, that an Orlesian general sought out the defeated king. Why he did this, no one really knows. It may have been a trap meant to deliver King Brandol to the Emperor, or perhaps the general was playing politics, trying to enforce his own will over Ferelden, perhaps looking to turn the old king into his puppet. Whatever his reasons, the man made contact with the king, and the two parlayed for a time. The General had not come alone of course. He had brought his pretty young daughter with him, to serve as his aid, not much is known of her, accept to say she was young, a beauty, and refined. Why the general had brought such a girl into the war zone that was Ferelden at that time, none can say. All that is known **is** that the General returned to Orlais with nothing, and his daughter gave birth to a baby some nine months later.

Pine frowned.

"I don't need to say who the girl claimed that the father was."

Oz frowned.

"She claimed it was the king's?"

Lord Pine nodded.

Alim's eyes narrowed with thought.

"Was the old king the type to take advantage of a guest like that?"

"Hard to say what Brandol would have been like at that point? His lords had turned against him, and his kingdom was in the hands of invaders."

"So it is possible that the Crowned Mabari leaders do come from the Theirin Bloodline?"

"It is possible," Lord Percy agreed, "Though why our king would choose to sleep with the daughter of one of the invaders is beyond me."

Tristan Merry gave a dismissive shake of his head.

"So the girl had a bastard child," he said with a shrug, "So what?"

"Both the girl and the king were of noble birth," the lord reminded them, "That _**matters**_ in noble circles, even if the child was born on the wrong side of the blanket. While the Rebel Queen rallied the nobles against the Orlesians, the Emperor and his court sought of a way to pacify the Fereldan people. It is said that the General brought his daughter and her child to the imperial court. The man argued that his grandchild had the blood of Ferelden kings flowing through its veins, and was therefore the answer that they sought. He hoped to be named Regent, at least until the child could come of age, and that when the time came, his grandchild would marry into the Ferelden nobility, so would they build a new royal line in Ferelden, a line that would bind Ferelden to the Empire in a way that no mere Regent ever could."

Oz nodded.

"A sound plan," he said, "It might have even worked. Why didn't the Emperor consent?"

"No one knows," Pine shrugged, "Perhaps the man was not in favor with the imperial court. Maybe the man had enemies that did not wish to see his daughter's bastard, advance. Perhaps the Emperor had his own plans of who to make regent, and would not be stopped by something as troublesome as logic. Whatever the reason, the general was sent away with his family. He would late die in some border skirmish. His daughter lived on; she raised her child, and for a time stayed out of the politics of the empire. She wed a wealthy merchant, who gave both her and her child anything they could want. The child grew up, and in time married, and had her own children. While this was going on, King Maric rose up from obscurity, and with the help of Loghain MacTir and his rebel lords finally drove the Empire from our lands. King Maric the Savior had been on the throne for only a few months when a certain Orlesian merchant's wife requested and audience in Denerim."

Alim's ears lowered slightly.

"I think I can guess what she wanted," he said.

"You probably could at that lad," Pine said, "You probably could."

"The royal line was in shambles, only King Maric remained. He was married to Queen Rowan at that point, but that did not stop the lords from worrying about the line of kings. It was then that the General's daughter came to the capital, with her daughter in tow. They told the king the story of what had occurred between the General's daughter and the old king. The child, a young woman at this point, wished to be recognized as a princess of Ferelden, She offered Maric her children to help rebuild the noble line."

"I can't imagine that the King was pleased with that offer," the Cat said.

Pine chuckled, his head bobbing with agreement.

"It is said that he wasn't. Teyrn Loghain looked at the two women as would-be usurpers, come to steal Maric's throne with words where swords had failed them. He convinced Maric to send the two away. That the bitch and her bastard would never find any place upon the throne of Calenhad. They left of course, and returned to Orlais, but it is said that the young woman, the General's granddaughter, was furious, and that she pledged to see Ferelden do right by her blood.

Alim frowned slightly; he knew well the temper of an angered Orlesian woman. He had seen it himself in his beloved Leliana.

"So, she started the Crowned Mabari?" he said.

Again Pine nodded.

"The General's daughter was very wealthy from her marriage that gave them the gold they needed. As for her child, it was said she was quite clever, and had married a young man from a fine military lineage, not an officer himself, but a man with many friends. Between the two of them, the women forged a company of sell swords to extend their reach beyond what the Empire could offer them. When the young woman got with child, she named her son Maric, perhaps as a slight to the cousin who had rejected her, or perhaps to make the boy more palatable to the nobles when they finally made their move. Whatever the reason, they spent the next decade or so reaching out to lords and knights in Ferelden looking for a way in. Maric the Younger, eventually produced three children of his own, the youngest boy you have all met."

"They hoped to be welcomed into the Ferelden nobility; they wanted to get closer to the throne." Oz said grimly.

"Once perhaps," Pine said, "When Maric vanished at sea, all that changed. Good King Cailan's lack of experience, coupled with the fact that he had not been able to produce an heir had no doubt set the Crowned Mabari scheming. Maric the Younger's eldest boy already has an infant son, it is said; such a fruitful line might prove attractive to the rather skittish nobles that now worry about the line of kings. Only Teyrn Loghain had held the Crowned Mabari at bay. He remembered well how the grandmother and mother had come asking for their royal rights. He shielded Cailan from their schemes, and kept a stern eye on any noble who even considered bringing any Crowned Mabari men into Ferelden."

"Then the Blight occurred," Alim chimed in, "And Cailan died at Ostagar."

Pine gave him an appraising look.

"You have a good grasp of politics master elf," he said, "For a servant."

Alim shrugged.

Oz came to his rescue.

"Father traditionally discusses business while on the hunt," he said quickly, "Lem is usually there with us."

The young knight chuckled nervously.

"He probably knows more than I do."

If the Lord of Maiden's Ridge believed the tale, he said nothing. He simply continued with his story.

"The Blight, its quick end, and the death of Teyrn Loghain must have seemed the Maker's blessing to Maric the Younger and his children. The royal line trusted to a base born boy, the son of a serving girl, and the lords more fearful than ever that the line of Calenhad might die out in a single generation. Maric the Younger moved quickly. He used his contacts in Ferelden to bring more and more of his men here. His sons crossed the border with ease, now that Teyrn Loghain was no longer there to block them. As you can tell from Vickon, they worked hard to lose any trace of their Orlesian accents, they adopted Fereldan clothes and traditions quickly, no doubt at the urgings of their father and their uncles."

Pine shook his head.

"Their sister is said to be in Ferelden as well, doing Maker knows what to advance their designs on the crown. The failure of the inquest against King Alistair has no doubt only strengthened their resolve. Some lords are angry, they don't like our new king who they view as Eamon's puppet, angry enough perhaps to look to Maric the Younger as a reasonable alternative, Orlesian blood or no."

Pine's expression turned flinty.

"I fear our new king has a problem. The Crowned Mabari are well funded, heavily armed, and have at least token support from some of the lords. That support may grow if Vickon or any his men claim the champion's prize here. Lord's on the fence over Maric the Younger's claim might be tempted to come over to his side, seeing such a strong family making such a strong showing."

The lord chuckled mirthlessly.

"That is who you have angered my young friends," he said.

He turned to the Cat and Ser Oswald.

"I would be careful out on the lists, my young friends. The Crowned Mabari has a sharp bite."

Alim pursed his lips, processing what he had heard; he knew some of this from his travels, yet…

His elven ears twitched.

More and more he was sure that something off was going on here. By killing a royalist, Vickon the Vicious had sent a message to the lords and knights, a show of strength.

The warden mage frowned.

Those loyal to the king would need to respond, but in what way…?

His frown deepened.

…In what way?


	7. Surprises

**Chapter 7: Surprises**

She rose before the dawn.

Maegan slipped out of her tent while many of the lords and their servants remained sleeping. She slid out of her tent, and immediately began the day's activities, mainly seeing to her horses, and getting herself mentally ready for the day's tilts.

What she had heard from Lord Percival last night still stuck in her mind. She did not regret stepping to stop the Crowned Mabari, though only a fool would not acknowledge that she had made an enemy last night. An enemy that she would likely have to face soon…

Let him come, she thought to herself, if Vickon wanted to try his blade against hers he would find her not so easy an opponent.

Her warhorse whickered as she brushed his mane. A cool breeze had come up during the night, and continued to blow. The air smelled of rain.

 _The tourney grounds will be muddy today,_ she thought to herself _, some of those pretty young war chargers the nobles brought won't be used to the mud and the slick ground, which could be an advantage._

She smiled to herself.

She had no fear or worry of her **own** mount. Crusader had seen her grandfather through many tourneys and battles. He was a veteran of war and weather, and he would not falter. He knew how to do his part.

She glanced around quickly; the grounds were, mostly silent, except for a few guards that continued to patrol for thieves. She saw no one in Crowned Mabari colors which was good. Lord Percival had offered both her and Ser Oswald guards for the night, just in case Vickon sent people to make trouble. Both of them had declined. Ser Oz seemed confident in his abilities if attacked, of course that might have been just the wine talking. Meg refused because she did not wish to appear fearful before her fellow knights, she had trust in her abilities, and if they failed, she was a guest of the Redboar, his guards would break up any trouble before it got too bad, she was sure of that.

As for those guards this morning, they ignored her for the most part, as one of the winners she would be expected to compete today, and would likely have to defend herself against any challengers.

She was ready for that, _let them come_ , she thought, _I will send them all down into the mud._

Once her horses and armor had been tended to, she slipped away from the camp and into a small wooded patch not far from her camp. There was a small pond not far away, and she still felt sticky from the night before.

The thought of a nice cool soak, made her grin. It was just what she needed right now.

The pond was just far enough back that no one would see her, the nobles had their own tubs and concerns. Yet, she did not wish to take any chances. Her grandfather's warnings still held. She had no desire to reveal that Ser Eagan was actually Ser Maegan.

Once the tourney was done, perhaps, she thought, once she had proven her skill and valor, perhaps then she would reveal who she truly was. Let them know her first as a champion, then as a woman,

She wanted no special treatment, and asked for none.

She sighed as she came upon the pool, the smell of water lilies called to her, that and the gentle croak of frogs and the chirp of insects.

She quickly stripped off her tunic and leggings.

The water would feel good, but it would be best not to linger.

Dawn was coming.

IOI

Tristan Merry rolled his eyes as he listened to the lordling in the bushes. He had been taking his turn on watch when Oz had emerged from his tent and ran to the tree line. The wine that their young knight had imbibed the night before had finally decided to come up.

The outlaw shook his head.

Ah, the wonders of serving the will of the king.

"You okay in there?" he called out.

Oz replied with a loud retching sound in the bushes, clearing the contents of his stomach.

Tristan rolled his eyes.

 _Maker's breath,_ he thought.

 _What have I gotten myself into?_

Unlike the rest of their little group, he had not needed to be told hold dangerous the Crowned Mabari was. He knew them well. He had been born in Orlais, though no one would guess by hearing him speak. He had lost his accent very early on, thanks to his mother. She had known the truth of it, and made sure that he did as well. Having an Orlesian accent in Ferelden was dangerous, almost as dangerous as involving oneself in the business of Maric the Younger and his sons.

Almost.

The ambitions of the Crowned Mabari were well known to him, and how far they were willing to go to get what they wanted. Had he known that they were mixed up in this, he would have told the elf 'no' on the road and went back to chasing purses.

 _It is too late now,_ his conscience chided, _you are in it now._

He sighed.

 _Now you must finish the game._

He did not like it, but there it was.

When a mouse was caught in a trap, the only thing he could do was eat the cheese.

After they had left Lord Pine's pavilion the elf had slipped off somewhere, what he was doing Tristan did not know. Yet, they all agreed it wise to set up a watch schedule, just in case the Crowned Mabari decided to send anyone to show their lord's displeasure. Oz had somehow managed to take his turn without throwing up, amazing that was. Alim had returned sometimes after, did his turn at watch, and then it had been Tristan's turn, and now…here they were.

I came here to dig up dirt for the Hero of Ferelden, he thought, not babysit some drunken lord's boy.

The thought made him frown as soon as he had it.

Oz was only a few years younger than he, about the age that Tristan had been when he had set off to become a gentleman of the road. He had seen how the lordling had managed to hold his sword when he faced Vickon, and while being more than a little drunk too.

He wondered just how good the boy would be when sober.

Perhaps he would get a chance to find out before all was said and done.

Oz groaned and rose from the bushes, wiping his mouth and looking absolutely miserable. Tristan offered him a wine skin.

The lordling shook his head no.

"To rinse your mouth out," he told his ally, "take a sip, swish and spit it out."

Oz grudgingly took it and did as the outlaw bid, just as Tristan had done more than a few times after a long night in a tavern. The Bann's son handed him his wine skin back with slight nod.

Tristan accepted it with a hint of grin.

"You're welcome," he murmured.

The sound of a breaking branch stopped them both cold.

Tristan drew his blade.

Oz might have as well, but he had been in such a hurry to see the wine out of his stomach he had left his sword back in his pavilion. Tristan might have sent him away, but the lordling surprised him by drawing a curved dagger from his boot.

The outlaw nodded approvingly.

Perhaps Ser Oswald was not as hopeless as he seemed.

Tristan raised his hand, silencing his ally. Both men hunkered down behind some bushes; whoever was out there would not likely see them that way.

In the dim light of pre-dawn, they saw Ser Eagan the Cat moving with purpose through the trees.

The outlaw's brow furrowed.

 _Now where in Andraste's name is_ _ **he**_ _going?_

The elf had told them to keep an eye out for anything suspicious, a knight slipping away from camp in the wee hours of the morning certainly counted as suspicious.

They would need to check it out.

He glanced over at Ser Oswald, despite being blurry eyes, the lordling seemed to be fully alert, his hangover probably hurt like Andraste's pyre, but he seemed functional.

He put a finger to his lips, and mouthed the word "follow."

Oz nodded.

With all that was going on, their friend from last night heading off into the woods, away from the tourney was a little bit suspicious.

Tristan was determined to figure out was going on.

He moved silently through the woods, such a skill was necessary in his line of work. He was surprised that Oz could keep up with him and with a reasonable amount of silence too. They caught a glimpse of the Cat slipping next to a small pond; the call of birds behind them caused the hedge knight to glance around, causing the two men to stop, ducking behind a large thorn bush.

By now they were a good distance from the tourney grounds, why would the hedge knight go all the way out here, Tristan wondered. Was he meeting someone? Was he…

A gentle splash in the pond revealed the knight's purpose.

Tristan sighed.

So much for his suspicions he thought. A knight sneaking away for a bath, that was treason for sure wasn't it?

He was about to head back the way they came when Oz poked his head up over the thorn bush. Tristan heard more splashing from the pond. He was about to tell Oz to come on, there was nothing to see here. The lordling stiffened, his mouth fell open.

Tristan's eyes narrowed.

 _Come on_ , he mouthed.

Oz did not respond, his eyes stayed pinned on the pond.

The outlaw rolled his eyes.

What now, he wanted to growl, what was so…

He turned and peeked over the thorn bush himself.

Any angry retort died unsaid.

Tristan blinked.

He…he…

 _Wow!_

The Cat had emerged from the pond, stretched, and searched for a cloak to dry...

The outlaw smiled.

Okay...maybe the journey out here **was** worth it.

Now he knew why the knight had chosen such a place to bathe, he thought with a smirk, there were one or two things that any man would have noticed if the knight had chosen to do so close to camp.

 _Well,_ he thought, _isn't_ _ **this**_ _surprising?_

"He," Oz murmured pointing, "He…um...he…he is a **she**."

Tristan almost laughed.

Real master of the understatement Oz was.

The Cat was indeed a girl, a pretty one too. Even with her hair cut short like a boy, the girl had an amazing figure, toned and lithe. She had long shapely legs and a curvy figure. Her arms were toned more than most young girls, but that was to be expected of a proud Ferelden born warrior. Her breasts were small, but pert and perfect. They jutted out proudly as she arched her back, pausing to enjoy the cool dawn breeze.

Tristan's mouth had gone dry, and he felt a bit of a tightness in his leggings. He had seen women naked before, but none had the quiet power and grace that The Cat had. She reminded him of something, something he had almost forgotten. He had seen a jungle cat in a circus in Orlais once, long sleek and powerful, yet beautiful too, untamed. All words could be used to describe the vision of beauty before them, and make no mistake, the little hedge knight was a beauty.

He licked his lips.

 _Well, hello pretty Kitty,_ he thought.

He wondered what it might take to make her purr.

He glanced over at his ally, Oz looked dumbfounded. The expression on the lordling's face made the outlaw almost chuckled.

He wondered if this was the first time the boy had seen a girl in such a state. If so, he could not blame him for being struck almost speechless. It was a grand sight indeed.

The Cat was humming quietly to herself as she dried herself off, completely relaxed, at peace, even in her state of undress. She reached down to pick up her shirt.

A flock of birds took over to their right; the knight looked up, momentarily distracted.

Tristan dragged Oz away before she could notice them, it had not been easy to pull the boy away, not that the Outlaw blamed him. Oz seemed to have forgotten all about his hangover; once again Tristan did not blame him.

He had a few things on his mind as well, and they had nothing to do with what was happening at the tourney.

Tristan Merry smiled to himself.

 _Here Kitty, Kitty,_ he thought to himself.

 _Such a pretty little kitty, indeed._

IOI

They returned to find Alim in their little camp, doing duties that were expected of an elven servant or squire. The disguised warden barely noticed them as he finished brushing out Oz's horse's mane, before turning to a small pot of oats cooking over a small open flame.

The elf's ears twitched as he looked up at them.

"Everything okay?" he asked, "You are both blushing."

Tristan wiped his cheeks, a guilty expression on his face. Yet, he remained silent; there was no need to…

"The Cat is a girl," Oz blurted out, "we saw her _**naked**_."

Tristan rolled his eyes.

"Thanks Milord," he said resisting the urge to swat the boy.

Thanks so bloody much!

IOI

Alim said nothing, he simply stirred the oats; making sure they did not burn.

He sighed.

Not too long ago, his reaction to seeing such a thing might not have been that different, than Ogre's Bait's still that did not mean that he had forgotten what he had promised the Cat, no, he would hold true to that promise…and make sure that these two did as well.

"She does not want anyone to know," the elf informed them, "So keep it to yourselves; we owe her that much for her help last night."

Tristan gave him a surprised look.

"You knew?"

The elf smirked.

"I live with a woman who was once and Orlesian bard," he said, "I've learned a thing or two about seeing through deceptions."

Oz shook his head, no doubt the image of the girl still swimming through his teenaged mind.

"I don't get it," he said, "There are women who are knights, why would she choose to hide who she is?"

Alim chuckled.

"Do you see any women competing here today, Ogre's bait?" he asked, "I don't."

Tristan nodded.

"Lim is right, Oz. Lot of lords see tourneys as pissing contests," he said, "The thought of being shown up by some girl, especially some low born girl that sleeps in the hedges…a lot of them would find that insulting, insulting to the point of executions."

The outlaw shook his head.

"I'm certain you both remember the tale of Aveline the Brave?"

IOI

Oz winced. He had heard that tale growing up. It had not ended well for Ser Aveline.

Was it any surprise that the Cat would choose secrecy, still…still…?

He blinked at the memory of the girl standing beside the pond.

Maker's breath, he thought.

That is one image that I will not be forgetting any time soon.

IOI

Alim looked at them both, a sly smile on his face.

"I would not mention this little incident to the Cat either," he said, "Someone might start asking why you are both missing all your teeth."

Tristan chuckled.

"No worries on that point," he said, "I would rather not be rode down by a pissed off woman in armor, especially one that knows how to wield a sword."

The outlaw laughed.

"She might decide to cut off something, something that I might one to use one day."

The warden laughed lightly.

"Wise of you," he said, "Very wise."

He nodded again.

"Good," the warden said, "What about you Oz?"

The noble was silent.

The elf gave him a harsh look.

"Oz?" he said grimly.

Tristan nudged him hard in the ribs.

"Ow," he cried out, "I… I…swear alright. I swear on Andraste's pyre."

The elf nodded.

"Good," he said taking up two bowls of cooked oats, he spooned them out for his two allies. Tristan took his gratefully, but Oz still looked a little green, finally remembering his hangover.

"Might as well eat," he advised.

"Today promises to be an interesting day."

IOI

Lance once again met shield and exploded.

Rain still threatened, but the tourney went on as planned. The Cat found herself called out in the tenth tilt of the day.

She was determined not to faltered.

The blow from the lance nearly unseated her. Maegan was rocked in her saddle, yet she still managed to hold onto Crusader's reins. She was staggered, but did not fall, the blow had struck hard, high on her shield, but she had not faltered. She turned Crusader, and took another lance from a boy standing at the edge of a tilt.

Through the eye slit of her cat's head helmet she could see her opponent was still in the saddle as well.

Good, she thought.

He will fall on this next pass.

Two lances had been broken already; she did not intend to make it four.

Her opponent today was Ser Borros, a rider in the service of their host, The Redboar. The man was good and strong, she had to admit, but she had not fallen yet, nor intended to.

This gray day had begun badly for yesterday's champions. Ser Alden Callaway had left some time in the night, no missive, and no one knew why. The man had been a favorite to be grand champion, and he slunk away like some robber knight afraid to pay his debt. Three other winners had fallen as well. Of those that had competed in the first day, only Ser Percival, the Flame of the West, and she remained.

She did not count Vickon the vicious among them. The man's victory had been tainted by blood, and no knight had challenged him since the jousting resumed. Now the Vicious one sat in a chair beside his tent, sipping wine, and getting his shoulders rubbed by one his three women.

He nodded and raised his wine horn as the Cat rode by, a contented smile on his face.

She glared at him.

His time would come.

 _Think not of him now, little Meg,_ she could almost hear her grandfather's words. _It is Ser Borros that matters now, and_ _ **only**_ _Ser Borros._

 _The Vicious one is the future, Ser Borros is the_ _ **now.**_

When the master of games gave her the signal to ride on, she gave her battle cry and charged down the list, her, lance aimed at the Redboar sigil on her opponent's shield. Crusader did not shy away; he met the challenge with the competency of the veteran that he was. He…

Lance met shield again, but this time, it was the Cat who was unseated…

She came down hard in the mud.

No, she thought her head still spinning from the fall.

No!

She somehow managed to find her feet, not willing to lose her sword, horse, and armor. Her plate stained brown with sticky mud. The crowd cheered as she managed to find her feet, but Ser Borros had already dismounted as well. The big man came at her. He wielded a morning star instead of a blade.

He advanced on her twirling the weapon faster and faster. Her head was still ringing from the impact, but somehow she had managed to get her sword free; she shook her head to clear the cobwebs, and dropped into a fighting stance.

The Redboar man charged.

Meg raised her shield.

The impact almost broke her arm.

Again and again the man hammered her. He rained down blows upon her head and torso, her shield becoming more and more dented with each strike. She tried to shove him back, but he sidestepped and she almost took a good hard strike on her shoulder. That might have ended things right there, such blow might have broken her collar bone, but Ser Borros sidestepped yet again, choosing not to take the blow, and once again struck down hard on shield, trying to strike at her head.

The move surprised her.

All he needs is me to yield, she thought. He could have won by hurting me, yet, he fights on, fights on as if to kill. Why?

The Redboar man struck again, and again, his blows becoming harder, more desperate somehow. She charged in with her shield, trying to strike at his arm and disarm him.

For the briefest of moments, the two locked eyes, she saw the contempt in the Redboar man's gaze, that and a bit of fear.

He hid that fear with a chuckle, and murmured just loud enough for her to hear over their struggles.

"Prince Vickon says hello little one."

The words made her freeze,

It was all the Redboar's man needed, he released his morning star and with a quickness she would not have expected from such a big man, he had a knife in his hand a knife he shoved between her belt and breast plate. The blade bit deep.

She cried out more in surprise than pain.

 _A Redboar man_ she thought, _fighting for the Crowned Mabari! Why? How?_

She heard Ser Borros laugh. Yet in her mind she saw Vickon, he and his three blank faced women.

Fury flashed in her eyes.

Something in her snapped.

She yowled her battle cry, a mix of pain and anger.

For Maegan the Cat, the world turned red.

Then it faded to black.


	8. Two Visitors

**Chapter 8: Two Visitors**

The tourney continued on, lances continued to splinter and knights continued to fall. Ser Oswald Ogre's Bane was no longer sitting in the royal box however. Seeing what had happened to the Cat had finally convinced him that he needed to take a more active role in this mission.

Listening to noble prattle is all well and good, he thought…

Not now though, now is the time for action.

He had watched with awe as the Cat had somehow pulled victory from defeat. Her opponent, Ser Borros had pulled a knife and jabbed it into the hedge knight's side. That may have ended things right there, but all it seemed to do was anger the Cat, and in her anger, she had drawn her claws.

Her angry yowl filled the air, in that moment she was neither knight nor girl, but an angry wild beast. She brought up her shield and smashed her opponent's visor; one strike was all it had took to break it. What followed was a flurry of blows, pulping the knight's face. He tried to pull away but the Cat would not let him, she fell upon him like a lioness, striking with both her shield and her elbow.

In the end, it had been Ser Borros who had been carried from the field, still blubbering 'I yield' through shattered teeth and pulped lips, or perhaps those were just gurgling noises.

Oz could not say for sure.

Alim and Tristan had run to her side, and caught the girl before she collapsed. The crowd had been on their feet at that point, the joust had turned from a fight of honor to a back alley brawl and the small folk ate it up. When it was all over, only Ser Eagan had been left standing. The Master of Games had already declared the Cat the winner, she tried to raise her hand, yet almost collapsed, blood running freely from her side.

She still required healing, someone had shouted for the Redboar healer, but Alim had beaten them to it...

He brought her back to Oz's pavilion and even now saw to her wounds. Oswald could not say how bad they were, but there had seemed to be a lot of blood leaking from the hedge knight's wound.

Fortunately, a very skilled mage was now with her.

He would see that she recovered quickly.

"If anyone asks," the disguised warden told him, "Inform them that the Cat was merely scratched, yet he is disoriented from the fight. Let no one in here, and let no one know how bad this might be."

Oz had nodded; he trusted the Hero's word. If anyone asked, his elf knew a bit about healing ointments, and the Cat, being both a champion and a friend of Dragon's Peak, was now being tended to, on his orders.

 _People_ _ **would**_ _believe that._

They would think he was being chivalrous.

He sat before his pavilion, sharpening and oiling his sword. He tried not to think about what he had seen that morning. The vision of beauty emerging from that pond, even the memory was enough to make his trousers feel a little tighter.

Easy there, his conscience chided, you are already betrothed remember? Johain would not likely look kindly on you lusting after some hedge knight.

The thought made him smile.

 _Who was lusting?_ He thought, _that had been simply…art appreciation, nothing more._

He quirked his lip, imagining his father's icy glare, and the chubby little girl, well the chubby little girl he had met when he eight, Maker knew what she looked like now, the girl who would in a few short years become his wife.

I didn't do anything wrong, he thought, and who could blame me.

 _I'm betrothed, not dead._

He tried to push any guilt or thoughts of the Cat rising from that pond out of his mind. She was a warrior and deserving of his respect, no matter how good she looked outside of her armor.

 _Focus on your sword,_ his conscience chided _your_ _ **metal**_ _one._

 _The other one will not likely be getting any use today._

He returned to his work.

And he tried to focus on that.

Most nobles would have said that such tasks were a squire's work, and beneath the level of a true knight.

Oz disagreed.

He had been a squire long enough to appreciate the care of arms and armor. Many an hour of his youth had been tending to Oswyn's armor, or their guard captain's, both had drilled into him that his life made depend on them one day. If ever he was caught alone, separated from his allies, he was more than prepared to make sure his blade remained sharp and his armor strong. Bann Sighard had made sure that his son grew up with an intimate understanding of weaponry, how to use it and its value. A knight never knew when they would be called upon to show the strength of their sword arm. Their weapons needed to be ready when that time came, whenever it came.

One day, when he took a squire of his own, he would teach that lesson to them.

He watched as Ser Percy unseated yet another opponent. The crowd cheered, despite the fact that the lord had taken down another of the Redboar's banner men. You could say what you wanted about the Lord of Maiden's Ridge, but no one could doubt his skill with a lance.

Oz glanced over at his shield; soon he would need to hang it. Soon he would need to enter the lists. He would need to challenge, but he was not sure who he would seek to face. Of the first day's champions, only the Flame of the West, Lord Percy, and Vickon the Vicious remained. The Crowned Mabari had defeated two more opponents today, but Oz saw them as no true threat, simply jumped up squires, hoping to prove themselves by taking down the first man to shed blood at this tourney.

He glanced over at Vickon with a grim light in his eyes. The would-be prince lounged in a chair, while his three women tended to him, sipping an iced drink from a horn.

He is drinking water if he is smart, Oz thought, wine if he is not.

"Ser Oswald?"

He glanced up. Both Ser Phillip Stryker and young lord Redboar's friend Ser Maron was approaching him.

He put on his most welcoming smile, and did his best to hide his curiosity.

 _What did these two want?_

"Ser Phillip, Ser…Maron was it?"

The other knight nodded.

"What a pleasant surprise," Oz said jovially.

From what he knew of Ser Phillip, the man was a longtime ally of the Redboars. Dark haired and rail thin, he looked almost like a sword himself, especially next to his burly blond haired companion. He had served Ser Adam for many a year, and was rumored to have fought in the battle of Fort Drakon during the siege of Denerim.

It was doubtful that he would recognize Alim, especially dressed so plainly. Yet Oz was glad that the elf was inside the tent tending to their wounded guest.

Why take chances after all.

Ser Maron was…an oddity; he did not remember ever having seen the man before today. He was too well dressed to be a hedge knight; that was for certain.

"How is Ser Eagan doing?" Ser Phillip asked, "He seemed _distressed_ after his victory."

"My elf is tending to him;" Oswald said dismissively, "Ser Cat was quite shaken up after his last bout."

Stryker looked at Ser Maron, who nodded sagely.

"That was far from well done," he said, "Ser Borros should never have drawn that blade. Perhaps the thought of winning drove him to it; the smell of gold can make a monster of any good man. Still…"

Ser Maron shook his head.

"He is lucky that Ser Eagan did not **kill** him."

Oz managed a slight smile.

"He will live then?"

The other men nodded.

"Good. Tourneys may be dangerous, but that does not mean we should lose two men in the space of two days."

"Ser Aubrey's death was unfortunate," Stryker agreed, "A most tragic accident."

Ser Maron's brow furrowed.

"Vickon has always been…excitable," he said, "In the heat of the moment, he often makes mistakes."

Oz listened closely to his two guests. He could hardly call what happened to Ser Aubrey an accident. The match between the Vicious One and Ser Aubrey had been no more excitable than any other. Yet, he now found himself intrigued by his guest, and the familiarity with which he spoke of the Crowned Mabari champion.

"Do you know Ser Vickon well, Ser Maron?"

The burly man let out a long suffering sigh.

"It is so," he said, "We have known each other since we were children. He had always been difficult, but in spite of it all, a brother must remain true to his sibling. Is that not so Ser Oswald?"

Oz only just kept himself from dropping his sword. He hid his surprise the best he could, but…

He blinked and looked up at Ser Maron, truly looking at him now. Yes, now that he was looking, he could indeed see the similarities between Vickon and Ser Maron.

Ser Maron was Maron Theirin, eldest son of Maric the Younger!

How foolish could he have been not to see it **earlier!**

Ser Maron did not wear the colors of his company, yet his features gave him away.

He could have accused the man of being a traitor and a villain and sent him away, and might have if he had not been given a mission to find out what was going on here. It seemed that Crowned Mabari were more than simple guests here, what they were, Alim needed to find out.

He smiled slightly.

Oz saw an opportunity.

He decided to take it.

"I was not aware that House Redboar worked so closely with the Crowned Mabari," he said conversationally.

Ser Phillip shrugged.

Many of the smaller lords have used them in the last year," he admitted, "Too many good men were lost during the Siege of Denerim. Chaos is everywhere."

"The Crowned Mabari is doing its part to secure our homeland," Maron added, "Whatever aid my family can offer, we do it gladly."

Oswald nodded, he said all the right words, but he was curious what would happen if he pushed the man.

He decided to try it.

"And what of your father's claim, Ser," Oz asked him, "there are many in Ferelden who see your arrival as a threat to the crown."

The young man frowned.

"We have already fought one civil war, Ser. No one here wants to see another."

If Ser Maron was offended he did not show it, if anything he seemed amused by Oz's comment, far more amused than his companion was. Stryker looked angry.

"You should not insult my guest Ser," he warned.

Ser Maron though waved him away.

Ser Vickon's older brother chuckled.

"Are we at war, Ser Oswald, I did not think it so?"

Again the man chuckled.

"My family only wants what it has always wanted, recognition of our Ferelden blood. Besides the king himself, we are the last direct bloodline of Calenhad. Surely no one wants to see the line of king's snuffed out because of something as minor as the claims of Teyrn Loghain, a known traitor, who was executed for his crimes against the crown."

Ser Maron sighed.

"Had the Teyrn of Gwaren not been so close to the king, my family may have been welcomed back years ago, and the royal line secured so that Loghain's treachery at Ostagar would never have happened, or would have been rendered pointless."

Ser Maron shook his head.

"My family only wishes to help Ferelden in its time of need, nothing more."

Oz smiled slightly as he considered what he had just heard. If there had been more princes and princesses during the Blight, Loghain's regency would have been much shorter indeed. A Theirin heir, a noble born Theirin heir would have done exactly what Alistair and the warden had done, but more quickly. Perhaps the civil war could have been averted entirely, with Anora being forced to yield to a son or daughter of the blood.

Of course, by that argument, Maric the Younger should be King of Ferelden right now. His sons would be princes of the realm, and heirs to the Ferelden throne.

Such a thought made Ser Oz pause.

He was not sure he liked the idea of Vickon being only two heartbeats away from the Ferelden throne. If that one ever became king, who knew what kind of harm he could cause.

An heir like Vickon was reason enough to keep the Crowned Mabari as far away from throne as possible. Calenhad's blood our not…

The lords could say what they want; Alistair was trying to do right by their people.

Who could say what Maric the Younger or his sons would do in the same position.

"We need to get back Ser," Ser Philip reminded his guest.

"Your brother is about to enter the list again."

Ser Maron nodded.

"Thank you Philip," he said, "I will be there shortly."

Stryker nodded and headed back towards the royal box. Oz noticed that he made no attempt to invite him back, not surprising considering what he had said.

Ser Maron though still did not seem to have taken offense; his expression remained jovial to say the least.

He smiled down at the younger man.

"Give my best wishes to the Cat," he said, "Ferelden will need strong knights like him in the future."

"Are you expecting trouble ser?" Oz Inquired.

Ser Maron shrugged.

"The fate of Ferelden is currently uncertain my young friend," he said, the war and Blight opened up many wounds that are slow to heal. History will be moving fast, and those to slow to keep up will be left behind."

The Crowned Mabari man smiled at him.

"You are young and loyal; those are good traits to have in these uncertain times. Be careful whom you put your trust in. Such choices cannot easily be changed."

The Crowned Mabari man followed after his host, leaving Oz with more questions than answers.

Ser Maron had not threatened him, not really, but it was clear that there was more to what had been said than the words themselves.

"I will have to ask Alim about this, he thought, Alim will be able to make more sense of it, I'm sure.

He watched the two retreating back to watch the joust. Nearby the crowd roared as another lance shattered.

Be careful who you trust, the Crowned Mabari had said, wise words, though they would not get the answer he expected.

Oz knew who he trusted, and who he didn't.

He was loyal to both his friend the warden and his king.

If Ser Maron thought to test that...

…He was in for a very big surprise, indeed.


	9. Service

**Chapter 9: Service**

Her skin is the color of milk.

It was that thought that set Alim sobbing. Not the bruises and cuts the Cat had received, not the bloody gauntlets he had peeled off her hand, not even the deep wound in her side. No, those were nothing for a mage, a bit of healing magic and a spell to bolster the constitution and the young hedge night would be right as rain.

But…

But…

She had lost a lot of blood, he had saved her, she would live, but she was so white…

…It was not the knight; it was the baby, so small and squalling, her skin so white…

He had no idea why he was sobbing, there seemed to be no reason. It had not been difficult; it had been the kind of work that any second year apprentice in the tower could have done.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, his long elven fingers were shaking, something they had never done before, not during the darkest days of the Blight…

She is so pale.

 _Leli, she is so pale, her skin in the color of milk._

The thought had set off a memory, the night his little star had come into the world. The first time those large blue eyes had found his. He remembered holding her after, she had been so small, yet her lusty cry seemed to send every bird around Haven to flight.

It had been one of the happiest days of his life, and the most terrifying as well.

Alindra had been so pale. He had feared she had been born sickly, yet the midwife that had helped tend her assured him she was not. Her cry told you all you needed to know she was strong, healthy.

 _The mother is pale,_ the woman reminded him. _It is not surprising that the daughter would be as well._

He acknowledged that, but that had not stopped his worrying. His worries had expanded when their babe seemed to wake wailing in terror every night, cries loud enough to wake even the people in the cabin next door. Nightmares the midwife said, nothing more.

Both Alim and Leliana had looked at each other then, their worries shared.

Leli had had nightmares too…

There was nothing they could do, not for a child so young, the girl had nightmares, it was just something they would need to deal with, they could only comfort her when she woke, sooth her back to sleep.

His elven ears had lowered in shame.

He had brought down a tyrant and slain an Archdemon, but he could not give his babe sweet dreams at night. He…he…

Alim blinked and shook his head.

He was back in Ser Oswald's pavilion tending to the wounded girl they all knew as Ser Eagan the Cat.

Alim blinked again as the world came back into focus, his mind waking up to where he was and what he was doing.

He had been so overcome, that had not happened before Fort Drakon, not since the battle with the Archdemon, he…he…

He almost felt himself drifting away again, his sense of fear and despair taking him back to Haven, back to the fear he felt for his poor little daughter.

His large elven eyes narrowed. Why was this happening? The girl hedge knight looked nothing like Alindra, nothing. He had no reason to start weeping like a child.

The warden took a deep breath.

He forced himself to focus, as he had during his training in Kinloch Hold. Yet he could not escape the fact that he had changed…

Since the Archdemon, he had _**changed.**_

It had been subtle at first, but it was getting more and more obvious. The mood swings were only part of it. He hid it well, though some in Alistair's court still talked. Some believed that he was slowly going mad, and perhaps he was. The wardens had no answers for him, never before had one of their number survived dealing the final blow to an Archdemon.

They had no answers for him.

"If this is the result of the taint, which it probably is," one warden healer had told him, "then it will only get worse as you age."

It had not been what he had wanted to hear, but there was little he could do about it at that time.

"How bad will it be," he had asked.

"It is hard to say. You may be left sobbing one day, unable to stop. You may find yourself giggling at the world, lost to everything but mirth, or…"

The man had not needed to finish the last part; Alim knew what he was going to say.

He might end up being lost in a permanent killing rage, a danger to everyone and everything around him. He might even, in his madness give into a demon and become an abomination.

If that happened, he would be a danger to everyone, even Leli and the baby…

He would not let that happen.

For now, he tried to stay focused on his work, his duty. Duty was something tangible he could hold onto, it would keep him grounded. If he did finally go mad, he trusted his family and friends to do what was necessary. As a warden, he had gotten used to the idea of hard choices.

He knew, if the time came, those he cared about would do what must be done.

Until then, he would focus on helping others, serving others, and who knew it was a big world, one day…

He might even find an answer to what was happening to him.

He tried to push all thoughts of Alindra and Leliana out of his mind for now. He had a job to do, it was best that he get to it.

He once again inspected the wound in the young knight's side. It was deep, and likely would have been mortal had he not used healing magic, still, the girl was a fighter, she had proven that. She…

Her head moved. He glanced up and realized she was looking right at him. Dark eyes met his brown ones.

Her expression was…curious to say the least.

"I thought you were still unconscious," he said to her.

The girl shrugged.

"The sensation woke me," she informed him, "My wound closing, magic…magic knitting it back together.

Alim's ears twitched; clearly he had been too distracted.

The girl had seen him using magic, and he had not even noticed.

He shook his head.

What a fool he was.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

The girl worried her lower lip with her teeth. Fingers moved to her side.

"I…I think so," she said.

"Am I going to be alright?"

He shrugged.

"The blade did nothing that I could not heal.

Her expression changed, her brow furrowed with worry.

"Did I lose?" she asked.

He might have laughed, under normal circumstances, he would have.

A hedge knight lived by their arms and armor, a noble could easily ransom their gear back, but a hedge knight did not always have that luxury. The girl might have won earlier but…

He could certainly understand her concern. Her arms and armor were her life.

What was a hedge knight without them?

"You beat Ser Borros," he informed her, "Badly."

She frowned slightly.

"Will he live?"

Alim gave her a wry smile.

"He will be taking his meals through a funnel for the next couple of months, provided some kind mage does not offer to heal him."

Alim chuckled.

"Between you and me, I do not see that happening."

The girl tried to suppress a laugh, but was not entirely successful.

A soft smile played across her lips.

It made him smile as well.

The girl had a pretty smile, no matter how hard she tried to hide it.

"Mage," she murmured softly.

"You are a mage."

Alim gave her a wry look.

"Really," he said dryly, holding up his fingers, lightning crackled between his finger-tips.

"I guess that does explain how I am able to do this doesn't it?" he said dryly.

Her expression suddenly turned serious.

"Why would a mage choose to pretend to be a simple kennel master?"

Alim sighed; the girl had been nothing but honest with him since they had met. She had not even tried to deny who and what she was.

Did she not deserve the same?

Whatever was going on at this tourney, and yes, he believed that something was going on; he did not believe that the cat was caught up in it.

Still, he was not sure yet that he could trust her.

"Many eyes are watching what is happening here. I'm simply representing the needs of those I'm trying to protect.

"And who are they exactly."

He sighed again, heavily.

"Those who suffer when the highborn play their games, as I told you earlier ser, I sacrificed a lot during the war, I have no desire to sacrifice anything else."

The young woman seemed to consider this, her expression…guarded.

"Why did Ser Borros try to kill you?" he asked.

The Hedge Knight sighed.

"He claimed that he was doing it for Ser Vickon," she replied, "'Prince Vickon,' he named him."

The girl shook her head.

"He said that after he stabbed me. I don't believe he meant for me to live to tell the tale."

Alim considered what she had said.

Interesting, he thought.

Ser Borros was one of their host's men. Perhaps the man had done the deed simply for coin, it was possible.

Or perhaps the girl is lying to you, his conscience warned. Perhaps it was simply a matter of a tourney match that got out of hand.

That was also possible, but unlikely.

The girl had little reason to lie about this, especially after everything that had happened in the last two days. She had shown no duplicity thus far, in fact she had gone out of her way to aid them it whatever way she could, going so far as to aid them when Vickon took that elven girl.

Alim's elven ears twitched.

Ser Borros' use of the 'Prince' honorific was interesting too. Say that to the wrong person in Ferelden right now, and you might find yourself charged with treason, with your head on a pike a few hours later. Most men would not choose to use it, even if they did support the Crowned Mabari claim, it might get people suspecting that their lord might share those views. He supposed that he could ask the knight about it, but considering the mess that cat have made of his face and his jaw, it was unlikely he would be saying much for a few months at least, if ever.

Alim pursed his lips.

There were plenty of knights here that would have happily killed the Cat for Vickon, some of the other hedge knights here were only one step above thieves. Why use one of their host's men, it was suspicious, but then again, had he not been here, the Cat would not have survived to tell the tale.

Things were getting more and more curious by the moment.

He looked down at the girl; she had nothing to gain here by telling him that. Oswald had already earned Ser Vickon of the Crowned Mabari's ire, and she did not strike him as the type who ran running for help at the first sign of trouble.

No, the girl was used to taking care of herself.

"How bad are my wounds?" she asked.

"You wounds are healed, mostly," he informed her, "You did lose a bit of blood however, I would say eat a good meal tonight and drink lots of fluids. A good night's sleep would not hurt either.

"Will I be able to return to the field tomorrow?"

"I see no reason why not," he answered, "If anyone asked, the blade hit your armor and skidded off, the wound was nothing more than a scratch. We got you away before anyone noticed all the blood. I can also provide you with a potion that will help bolster your constitution if you mean to continue."

The girl nodded.

"You have my thanks, ser," she said.

He gave her a curious look.

"May I ask who you intend to face on the morrow?"

"Do you truly need to ask," she answered.

The elf frowned.

The girl would no doubt enter the lists and challenge Ser Vickon on the morrow. No doubt the man would expect that, and in her anger she might make a mistake, a **fatal** mistake.

He would not see that happen.

"You can choose to give up your champion's spot and challenge another champion," he reminded her, "Though I would advise against it. Let Vickon think that you know nothing of his attempt to kill you."

The girl's brow furrowed.

"He tries to have me killed and you advise that I do nothing?"

"I advise patience," he said letting a bit of steel into his voice, "There is more going on here than simple revels for the knights and the common folk. As one of the champions here, you stand a better chance than anyone to get close enough to those who know what is really going on."

His face became a stern mask.

"I would like you help if you are willing?"

She seemed to consider this for a moment. Finally, she nodded.

He only just kept from sighing with relief.

Praise Andraste, he thought.

"If we are going to be working together, should I not know you true name ser?" she said.

Alim shrugged.

"I see no reason not to," he said, "I will introduce you to the rest of the lads tonight. Of course, if we are going to be so honest, perhaps we should know your real name as well, as a matter of good faith."

The girl nodded.

"Maegan," she said, "My given name is Maegan. My friends called me Meg."

He smiled at that.

"A pretty name," he said, "I am pleased to meet you Meg. My name is Alim Surana, or if were being official, Alim of the Grey Wardens."

The girl's dark eyes widened, which amused him even more. Clearly the girl had not expected that.

"You…you're him," she murmured, "You…you are the Hero of Ferelden."

His expression turned serious again.

"What I am is a servant of the people and the king," he reminded her, "And now, so are you."

The words were enough to make the girl sit up, she hissed slightly, though healed the wound in her side would be tender for a few days.

"Easy," he advised.

Again she nodded.

"I am yours warden," she said, "I would kneel and swear my sword and service to you if I could."

"I do not doubt that ser."

She settled for placing her fist over heart.

"For the king and the people, I am yours without question," she said.

She bowed her head in submission.

"I am yours."


End file.
